


Colouring In The Negatives

by juliettdelta, Valkyrien



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Art Therapy For Adults And The Undecided, Everything Is Confusing And There Are Too Many Spiky Boys - A Summary By DadMax, F/M, Family Expansion Pack - Punk Weirdo Edition Available In All Good Retail Outbacks, Featuring Sisters Acting Like Moms Because Everyone's Real Mom Is Deceased, Follow For More Soft Lizard Aesthetic, Gen, Metal Will Eventually Rule The World With A Sparkly Fist And Impressive Pyrotechnics, Overcoming Emotional Baggage And How To Drag It Out For As Long As Possible, Punk Is Not A Phase It's A State Of Mind, The Care And Feeding Of Damaged Punks - A Handbook, The Viral Properties Of Lizards And Their Overbearing Humanoid Parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5810140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliettdelta/pseuds/juliettdelta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrien/pseuds/Valkyrien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Toast is bitter, Cheedo is sparkly and sweet, Capable and Nux are drift compatible, and Dag and Coma are taking over the world with heavy metal and glitter and think maybe Toast's bitterness and Slit's saltiness might be the perfect blend of intensity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sibling-Based Embarrassment 101; Teacher Decides What's Punk Hipsters Shut Their Coffeeholes

 

 

 

   “Those ignorant fuckers,” is the first thing Dag says when he wanders off the little stage set of the talk show.

 

 

   “It's fine,” Coma tells her, reaching out for her hand.

 

 

   She grabs it, squeezes, and leads him out to where there's more air, less movement and noise everywhere. He lets her, trusting she will lead him to where he needs to be, where they need to be. She always does.

 

 

   “They've no right to talk to you like that,” she continues.

 

 

   A door clangs loudly shut behind them and he feels the sun on his face. Hears the drone of cars on the road a little way away, some birds chirping about the latest gossip nearby. Dag's graceful fingers are laced with his and he taps out a soft rhythm on her knuckle with his thumb.

 

 

   “It's publicity. They talked about the album, mentioned the tour. That's all I can ask.”

 

 

   “It's fucking not, though. Pissbabies too afraid to let their audience see your beautiful face.”

 

 

   “Dag please.”

 

 

   Coma is used to having people demand he be treated better, he's lucky like that. But he knows when to leave it. That it doesn't always help, sometimes complaining just makes everything worse, and he is lucky, so, so lucky, to have an album people are talking about, to be on TV promoting it, even if it's just a morning show no one but the sleep deprived watch. But he also knows that he owes it all to Dag, to her fighting for him, so he doesn't say anything else.

 

 

   “The world deserves to know who is bringing their musical revolution,” she tells him, and her voice is softer and he feels her hand brushing curls away from his face and removing the mandatory interview sunglasses.

 

 

   “It's the music that counts,” he tells her and he knows she knows.

 

 

   He knows too that she will not stop getting angry on his behalf, and he loves her for that, even when it doesn't help.

 

 

   “It is,” she agrees,

 

 

   “But treating you like that, it's disrespectful. Like you're some kind of freak too weird to be seen on TV.”

 

 

   Coma shrugs, and Dag's fingers disappear from his hand and then she's holding his face and kissing the places where his eyes aren't. She brushes her lips over his, a whisper of a touch, and the wind moving the beads and braids in her hair creates the soundtrack for their moment.

 

 

   “You are beautiful,” she tells him,

 

 

   “Beautiful like birdsong and your music and the soft sound of rain and the smell of flowers and the smoothness of Lizzy's scales.”

 

 

   “Nowhere near as beautiful as you, then,” he tells her, with a smile meant to halt her disagreement.

 

 

   She makes a mock frustrated sound, and he reaches up to touch her cheek, tracing the sharp angle of the bone, tangling his fingers in her hair.

 

 

   “Please don't go back in there and fight them,” he pleads.

 

 

   She sighs, but promises that she won't, not this time, and he lets it go.

 

 

   “Better head home anyway,” he says,

 

 

   “Slit's probably trying to get Lizzy to recreate Godzilla again.”

 

 

   Dag hums her agreement and from the sounds of her hair and jewellery nods.

 

 

   “We have got to get your brother a girlfriend.”

 

 

   -

 

 

   “You know I really hope this works out for her,” Capable comments to Nux who is tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the half-muted CD in the sound system, and he flashes her a bright, immediate grin.

 

 

   “She'll do great!” he assures Capable,

 

 

   “She's really good, it'll be brilliant for her.”

 

 

   “That is why Dag recommended her for the class, but I know Cheedo's been worried that the level might be a little over her head,” Capable shares dubiously, eyeing the house from which Cheedo has yet to emerge but a lot of banging noises that can only mean she's searching for something have,

 

 

   “And Slit can be so critical, and he's been so intense lately, particularly about the start of term...”

 

 

   “Slit's always like that at the start of term,” Nux dismisses,

 

 

   “And he's always negative about what his new students will be like - that's why it'll be good for both of them, him an' Cheedo! She gets lessons that'll actually help her, and Slit gets at least one really good student this year, that'll cheer him up no end!”

 

 

   Capable hums, because Nux does have a point but she can't help but be concerned for Cheedo who has been looking forward to this for weeks with a blend of dread and jittery excitement, and Capable wants it to be everything Cheedo's hoped for and nothing like she's feared.

 

 

   She peers up at the house again through the window, craning her neck a bit, and jumps to face him when Nux puts a comforting hand on her knee and says with complete conviction,

 

 

   “Don't worry, okay? It'll be great. Slit's a good teacher and Cheedo's a good student. It's gonna be great. Few weeks from now you and Dag'll be laughing, Cheedo'll be head of her class and Slit will be over the moon that someone's actually taking notes for a change. It's all going to be - ”

 

 

   Cheedo wrenches open the back door on Nux' side and dives into the car only just managing to fold her legs in behind her before pulling the door shut and yelling over Nitro's excited barking,

 

 

   “Step on it, Nux, I am so late, this is a nightmare, I'll be thrown out on my first day!”

 

 

   The backseat is a flurry of limbs and a sparkly pink bag and Cheedo's hair flicking this way and that, Nitro squirming and wriggling to get her attention, and Nux immediately kicks the car into gear, and Capable has to reach over and put her hand on his knee as a precautionary measure before he gets carried away, gently reminding him that,

 

 

   “There's a speed limit, darling, this is a residential zone,” and Nux looks a little crestfallen and glances at the time, looking up at Cheedo in the rear view mirror and telling her soberly if regretfully,

 

 

   “You might be about five minutes late, but don't worry, it'll be fine,” and then he addresses Capable as well, checking,

 

 

   “Everyone wearing a seatbelt? Yeah? We're off then!” and Capable leans in to give him a quick kiss on the cheek because she is a firm believer in rewarding responsible behaviour, and Cheedo makes an affirmative sound from the back as Nux gets them on the road.

 

 

   Cheedo immediately seizes Nitro who is all too happy to be cuddled close as Cheedo groans into his fur and laments,

 

 

   “This is an awful way to start the term, it'll set the tone for the whole year - I'm going to look so irresponsible and flaky, I'll never be able to convince the teacher I'm not just a silly kid - I knew I shouldn't have gone for the pink bag!”

 

 

   Capable frowns at Cheedo in the rear view mirror but has to stifle a snort of laughter much like Nux' even less well-concealed one at Cheedo's certainty that the teacher will look down on her for tardiness - they both know that Slit wasn't even on time to the job interview to teach these classes in the first place, the odds of him being just five minutes late are slim to none.

 

 

   Cheedo continues in this vein for the entire journey into town, letting up only after twelve or so minutes as they reach the university campus, Nux having stringently obeyed speed limits but made a few clever - and completely legal - overtaking decisions on the main road, and so Cheedo is set to be only roughly five minutes late to her first art class, just as promised, but although Cheedo has her bag in her arms and one hand on the door handle, she still makes time to give Nitro a final cuddle before Nux pulls over in front of the right set of bland-looking buildings and she can open the door and hurl herself out.

 

 

   She calls a vague goodbye and thanks for the ride over her shoulder, but Capable climbs across the gear shift and Nux, planting one knee across his thigh and bracing her chest against his shoulder slightly, and leans out of his window to shout encouragingly after her,

 

 

   “BYE SWEETIE, HAVE A NICE DAY - MAKE GOOD CHOICES!” and when Cheedo turns around with one hand raised to cover her face and the mortified blush evident there, Capable waves vigorously at her and beams reassuringly, adding,

 

 

   “LOVE YOU LOADS! IF YOU NEED ANYTHING, CALL ME!”

 

 

   Nux mumbles something muffled against Capable's chest that she assumes is a similar sentiment, and she notices that a few sleepy-looking students outside the building are looking at them, so she waves to them, too, and smiles, and then reaches back inside the car to grasp Nux' headrest and lever the rest of her upper body properly back inside, giving Nux a quick proper kiss as an apology for having squished him just before, and like a proper gentleman he gallantly steadies her arm while she gets back into her own seat.

 

 

   She re-buckles her seatbelt again before twisting to scoop Nitro out of the back and cradle him in her lap, and then she double-checks that Cheedo has gone inside the right building before turning to Nux and smiling.

 

 

   “Shall we get on then?” she asks, and Nux grins at her, a bit of colour in his cheeks, and he fires up the engine again - literally, she sees out of the corner of her eye, and although she does love when they take off exhausts blazing, she's a bit concerned at the way they pull off down the road, so she reminds him gently,

 

 

   “Sweetheart, remember this is a school zone, some of these students don't look very awake, be careful, yeah?” and Nux eases off the accelerator but does execute a very smart turn onto the tiny roundabout that'll direct them back onto the main road and off campus, which makes Capable's tummy jump so high she forgets all about being worried for Cheedo - after all, Nux is right.

 

 

   She's brilliant.

 

 

-

 

 

   First day. First day and Cheedo is late. She runs up the stairs to the university entrance, coffee splashing out of the supposedly spill-free lid, backpack so heavy with books she almost loses her balance. The early morning air is cold, but she feels like she's drenched in sweat.

 

 

   The university let her into this course because she shows promise, and here she is, repaying their trust by being late. She's ashamed and breathless. Skids to a halt outside the door, sneakers squeaking on the floor. There's no window, so she can't see if the class is started yet. She leans close, trying to hear, trying to decide whether to burst in now or wait for some kind of break. She grabs the info sheet from her pocket, un-crumples it, and is double checking the room and time when there's a voice behind her.

 

 

   “You here for the art 101?”

 

 

   “Yes!” she exclaims as she turns, squeaking embarrassingly when she sees the speaker.

 

 

   It's a man, tall and muscular, with a huge scar across his face like a grotesque smile. He's got a shaved head, wears jeans and what looks like a band t-shirt under a crumpled shirt with rolled up sleeves. There's inky stains on the large hand clutching a steaming mug. She wasn't aware universities had security this intimidating. Or maybe he's another student, late too? He doesn't look like an art student, though, except for the ink stains and tired frown.

 

 

   “Sorry,” she mumbles. “Do you think we're late?”

 

 

   He looks amused.

 

 

   “Sure it'll be fine.”

 

 

   He opens the door, and she follows him in, scurries to the last remaining chair. There's desks along the walls, drawings tacked to most surfaces, but everyone's sitting on a grouping of chairs in front of a drawn down projector screen. The guy, she sees, goes up to the front, and she frowns.

 

 

   “Hello class,” he says, “I'm professor Slit.”

 

 

   He catches her eye, then, and she ducks her head, cheeks heating with embarrassed realisation. He starts up the computer up front, and she digs through her backpack for a notebook and pen. The only one she manages to find is purple and sparkly. It's childish, she knows, but she loves it.

 

 

   She looks around at the other students as the professor curses under his breath at the computer, which appears not to be cooperating. They all look older than her, more grown up. Which makes sense, she supposes. They are actual university students, not high school students placed here. Nearly everyone is wearing black skinny jeans and hoodies or ugly sweaters. She wonders whether this is what happens to everyone's clothes when they graduate. She smoothes her bright, patterned cardigan self-consciously.

 

 

   “Right,” the professor says as the projector flickers noisily to life,

 

 

   “Welcome to art 101. I'm professor Slit, and if any of you kids ask about my face I will _shred_ you. Forget findin' anything but an F at the end of the semester. I expect you to listen to what I say. You will think you're right, you'll think you know what you're doin', but lemme tell you this real early: you're wrong.”

 

 

 


	2. Lack Of Self Reflection & Self Portraiture: A Poorly Followed Lesson

 

 

 

   “Toast?” Cheedo calls.

 

 

   “Can I come in?”

 

 

   She knocks on the door with her knee, hands filled with steaming cups of tea, a herbal blend Dag's mixed up for them. It may or may not be poisonous, but it smells good and delicious. The door yields no answer, but she can hear furious typing so she eases the door handle down with her elbow and enters anyway.

 

 

   Toast's room is dark, curtains drawn against the glare of the sun and possibly against the reminder that there is an outside world. Tinny hints of music escape from Toast's headphones, which explains the lack of an answer. Cheedo calls her sister's name again, more loudly, and Toast startles, and pulls her headphones down. She looks awful. Tired circles under her eyes, messy hair she chops off herself whenever it gets too long, and a t-shirt with permanent coffee stains. Cheedo worries.

 

 

   “Brought you tea,” she offers, placing the mug down next to its empty siblings.

 

 

   “Oh. Thanks. Dag's stuff?”

 

 

   “Yeah.”

 

 

   Cheedo sits down on the edge of the unmade bed, and takes a sip from her own cup, burning her tongue. It tastes like a garden with hints of chilli.

 

 

   “Are you doing alright?” she asks, trying to keep her tone light and conversational, trying not to let the worry show, but she sees by Toast's expression that she has failed.

 

 

   “I'm fine,” Toast replies, too quickly.

 

 

   She tries the tea to cover it up. It's supposed to be a calming blend, Dag said, and Cheedo really hopes it works. Her sister is so tense lately. She's the only one of Cheedo's sisters still living at home, the only one who hasn't moved on. She finished her degree this spring, but still doesn't have a job. And Cheedo understands the past weighing heavily, she does, but she can't help but worry there's something wrong.

 

 

   “I started that art class today,” Cheedo says, because Toast clearly means to pretend nothing is wrong until Cheedo goes away.

 

 

   “Oh. Oh, right. Was it good?”

 

 

   “Yes! I think so, anyway. I think it's going to be. I mean, we didn't really do any art or anything today, just a sort of introduction thing. And I got a long list of supplies I need, so I'm gonna get Max to take me.”

 

 

   “That's good,” Toast says, and maybe it's Dag's tea working, because she manages to infuse her tone with a little enthusiasm and the corner of her mouth twitches in an almost smile,

 

 

   “The other students nice?”

 

 

   “A little intimidating,” Cheedo confesses,

 

 

   “They're all so old and sophisticated and cynical. But probably nice once I get to know them.”

 

 

   “It'll be fine,” Toast promises,

 

 

   “They'll see how amazing you are and all love you.”

 

 

   “Maybe. I hope so! It seems like it's going to be a good class. The teacher's a little scary, though.”

 

 

   “Oh?”

 

 

   Toast narrows her eyes, and Cheedo debates whether to elaborate. She knows Toast likes to go into overprotective sister mode sometimes, but honestly, it's a school, there's not much she can do, so.

 

 

   “Yeah. He seemed kind of angry? And he's kind of scary looking. He's got, like, a huge scar across his face, and- And I know that doesn't mean he's mean or anything, but he kept glaring at some of the students and threatening to fail anyone who asked about his face and stuff. I bet he's really strict. And I'm kind of nervous, because everyone else's work is probably way better than mine, and I don't want to get yelled at and -”

 

 

   She stops herself, takes another sip of the tea, which has cooled a little and doesn't feel as much like drinking fire any more. Toast looks angry.

 

 

   “He actually said that? Actually threatened to fail you?”

 

 

   “Well, yeah, I mean, sorta-”

 

 

   “He can't do that! That is definitely against the rules, you can't let him get away with that,” Toast exclaims, voice rising, and Cheedo can tell that she's working herself up to righteous anger but not whether it's a natural reaction or she's doing it on purpose.

 

 

   “I don't think-”

 

 

   “No, look, I'm going to phone the administration about this!”

 

 

   “Toast, please don't- I don't want to give him a reason to be angry at me!”

 

 

   “Look! Look! He's already got you scared of him! That's awful!”

 

 

   Her voice is too high and Cheedo can tell she's going to regret telling Toast about her day.

 

 

   “I know it's a small town but they can't justify hiring verbally abusive pieces of shit, however representative that may be of 'great' male artists of history. I'm going to fix this,” Toast announces, barely remembering to remove the headphones from around her neck before striding decisively from the room.

 

 

   Cheedo sighs. This was not the plan. She finishes her tea and gathers up all the old mouldy mugs and goes down to the kitchen, wondering idly if she can steal Toast's phone before she can do anything.

 

 

   -

 

 

   Stealing Toast's phone to try and prevent this debacle was always going to fail, Cheedo should have realised that, what with the house being full of phones, and Max insisting on maintaining a land line.

 

 

   There is also no one else around to help her reason with Toast - Furiosa is on an overnight run and Max has gone out to see a friend from the old days, Cheedo thinks - so her only support option is to call Capable from her own mobile from the kitchen while casting worried looks from around the door at Toast, who is stomping up and down the living room floor with the home phone pressed so tightly against her face that Cheedo is sure she's heard the plastic flex and buckle more than once, as she alternately rants at university staff and rants about being put on hold.

 

 

   “It's just so embarrassing!” Cheedo complains at Capable,

 

 

   “And it's really not necessary - there's really nothing wrong with the teacher, I thought the class was really good, she's going to get me thrown out!”

 

 

   “ _Sweetie, I know you're concerned, but I guarantee that you will not be thrown out, okay?_ ” Capable assures her, but it doesn't convince Cheedo, who can hear Toast swearing in the other room and can't look at that mess right now. Frankly Cheedo is feeling resentful of Toast at the moment, because for all that she understands that Toast is going through some stuff, it isn't fair of her to try and deal with that vicariously through creating non-existent problems to solve for Cheedo.

 

 

   “Well even if they don't throw me out, aren't they like, supposed to tell the teachers if someone complains about them? He's going to know about this, and it's so stupid because there's no problem - why does she have to take over like this? She won't listen to me! I asked her specifically not to call them!” she tells Capable, possibly for the second time in as many minutes, possibly with a hint of whining in her voice, but honestly she's getting upset too.

 

 

   It's been hard to watch Toast spiral for months, and it's been hard to try and support her, and it's been especially hard to see how Toast has pulled away from Capable and Dag while at the same time developing this new habit of completely smothering Cheedo like Toast is afraid that someone is going to take Cheedo away - it's really felt like their family has fractured somehow, that they've all been drifting apart in different directions.

 

 

   Cheedo knows Toast has been having a rough time dealing with Angharad moving so far away, and she knows that to then see Dag decide to move out too and get her own place was an added blow to Toast at a moment where she'd been starting to feel her home life destabilise, and yes, maybe the fact that Capable moved out to go and live with Nux shortly after that was the final straw for Toast, but Toast is the one who has been pulling away.

 

 

   She's never even been to Dag's new place, despite about a hundred invitations, despite Furiosa applying mum-pressure to Toast when Dag held her house warming party. Toast has actually refused to go to any family thing post-Capable moving out. She's never even met Nux, despite the fact that Capable has made a real effort to introduce him to the whole family, and that he's been to dinner at the house several times and regularly takes over from Max as family chauffeur, particularly when Cheedo needs a lift somewhere.

 

 

   Cheedo also knows for a fact that Dag has found it hurtful that Toast hasn't even acknowledged that Dag is for all intents and purposes engaged to Coma, whom Toast has also never met, or that Dag has finally found what she feels is her place in life, a purpose and an outlet for her love and creative energy.

 

 

   Cheedo knows, because they've all discussed it, that Toast has been struggling to find her own place in life, and that she's been feeling abandoned by her sisters who have found their places, but it's been Toast's clear choice to pull away, to disengage.

 

 

   Cheedo is the only one still living at home with Toast and Max and Furiosa, and so she has had a front row seat to all of this, and she knows that Toast has fixated on her simply because she's the youngest and she's still there every day. Toast is clinging to Cheedo and following the old pattern of being the overprotective older sister because she needs the familiarity, and Cheedo gets that, but it doesn't make it suck any less or make this escalation any healthier.

 

 

   “ _I'm really sorry, Cheedo, I know this is hard,_ ” Capable soothes,

 

 

   “ _And I wish that we could do more for her, but I think this is just what she needs right now, and if this is what gives her the push out the door that's been so long coming, maybe it could be a good thing? I promise you the university is not going to take her complaints or any consequence of that out on you, that's not how things work._ ”

 

 

   “But this isn't a good thing,” Cheedo argues, knowing that she sounds a touch petulant now in the face of Capable's warm, positively-charged understanding,

 

 

   “She's interfering when I asked her not to and she is literally shouting at people from my department!”

 

 

   “ _She also hasn't left the house in weeks,_ ” Capable reminds her gently,

 

 

   “ _Or spoken to anyone who wasn't family. When was the last time you saw her on the phone to anyone?_ ”

 

 

   “I know, but... this is _stupid_... She's making it sound really bad and nothing actually happened, he didn't do anything, I don't even think he meant the stuff about failing us,” Cheedo insists, and Capable makes a commiserative sound.

 

 

   “ _I shouldn't think so,_ ” she agrees,

 

 

   “ _I'm sure you have nothing to worry about on that front, anyway. Look, just... let things run their course, with Toast? It's not going to come back to you at school, the complaint didn't come from you, and she's not a student so she can't claim she directly observed anything she claims happened. Complaints like that won't be taken seriously_.”

 

 

   “It's just...” Cheedo peeps around the door again at where Toast is grinding her teeth and clearly on hold because you can't just ask to be put through to the Department Head, and then she ducks back into the bowels of the kitchen and furtively whispers, feeling awful and guilty,

 

 

   “She's acting crazy and blowing everything way out of proportion and talking about formal complaints and legal stuff, and I just - she's not listening to me and she won't back off. I'm afraid she'll mess this up for me. I don't want to quit the class because she's made things awkward. I don't want people asking me about what she's saying in there, because I'll have to tell the truth and the truth is that I'm not bothered by the teacher at all, he seems okay - he was even nice to me about coming in late, he was coming in at the same time as me, so it wasn't even an issue, I mean if he was an awful person, wouldn't he have said something then?”

 

 

   “ _By the rule of glass houses, yes,_ ” Capable agrees easily, and Cheedo seizes on this.

 

 

   “Well, yeah, but still, it's irresponsible to be late for your first ever class and for all I know he could have had teacher stuff to do that made him late, that's way more valid, and he was okay about the lateness thing and I honestly didn't think he would really fail any of us for asking about stuff, I mean, I've read the grading rules, I know he can't really do that, I just thought he didn't want to talk about that because... well, it's not relevant to classes and it's probably personal?” she doesn't wait for Capable to interject anything, rushing ahead to,

 

 

   “But I just - I get _why_ Toast is doing this, but I don't get why she's doing this even though I've asked her not, to, it feels like - like she doesn't really care about how I feel...”

 

 

   “ _Oh, Cheedo, no..._ ” Capable sighs, deeply sympathetic,

 

 

   “ _Toast may not be doing this for you so much as she's doing this for herself, even if she doesn't see that yet, but I promise you, she cares about how you feel. She does respect your feelings. She's just getting carried away right now because it's been a while since she actually had any real feelings about stuff that's really happening in real time around her. I know it's no fun being the catalyst and I know this is embarrassing for you, but even if it's misguided, Toast is doing this out of love. She's just focusing on her own emotions and projecting them onto you. That doesn't mean she's intentionally ignoring yours. She just doesn't have room right now._ ”

 

 

   “I know,” Cheedo admits grudgingly,

 

 

   “But she's making it sound like it's all about me while she's making it all about her. I don't want to get caught in the middle if it goes wrong.”

 

 

   “ _I know, sweetie, and I understand that, but there's nothing you can do right now except stick to your guns and let her know you don't agree with her approach to the issue, and then hopefully it'll blow over once she realises you're right,_ ” Capable says reasonably, and Cheedo chews on her lip and weighs it against her concern, but finally she has to voice it.

 

 

   “What if it doesn't blow over?”

 

 

   “ _At some point it'll have to,_ ” Capable insists practically,

 

 

   “ _And then she'll have to confront the reason she acted this way and hopefully she'll have the breakthrough we've been waiting for_.”

 

 

   In the next room, Toast shouts,

 

 

   “ - take my concerns seriously, I'll just have to do it myself!”

 

 

   Cheedo winces, hearing Toast plonk the phone down into its dock violently, and then the stomping of her angry steps, but not away and up the stairs to her room, and then suddenly Toast is stood in the doorway to the kitchen, scowling and glowing with rage, and she points at Cheedo and proclaims,

 

 

   “Your next class is tomorrow, right? Well I'm coming with you,” and then before Cheedo can voice any protest, she storms off.

 

 

   “ _Oh dear,_ ” Capable says through the phone, in what is the most woefully understated sentiment of the year.

 

 

   “She can _not_ come with me,” Cheedo hisses,

 

 

   “She'll make a scene and I'll get kicked out for sure!”

 

 

   “ _Don't worry - I'll come and pick you up and take you in, that way she won't be able to go with you. Furiosa won't be back until late anyway, and Toast won't take the truck, so it'll be fine_ ,” Capable reassures her, but Cheedo is not convinced. In this state, Toast is absolutely up to forcing her will through regardless of minor obstacles like not liking to drive Max' truck.

 

 

   “She looked serious - what if she really does it?” Cheedo asks miserably, imagining scenarios ranging from Toast stewing in a corner of her classroom straight through to walking right in and punching Cheedo's professor.

 

 

   “ _Then we'll deal with it, okay? It'll be fine. Even if she does go, she's not going to embarrass you in class, she wouldn't do that,_ ” Capable seems certain, and Capable is usually if not always right, but still, Cheedo's doubts and fears niggle worryingly, and she thinks that with that light in Toast's eye, anything is possible.

 

 

   “Alright...” she says doubtfully,

 

 

   “But if she gets me thrown out I'm not speaking to her for a year!”

 

 

   “ _I'm sure it won't come to that, sweetie,_ ” Capable replies gently,

 

 

   “ _I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Are you packed already? Go and decide what you're wearing so you don't have to scramble, and if you need anything else or you want me to come earlier, let me know. Love you._ ”

 

 

   “Love you,” Cheedo mumbles,

 

 

   “Bye...”

 

 

   Upstairs she can hear the shower running - Toast is taking a bath. She really is going to leave the house and follow Cheedo to class and ruin everything, Cheedo has no doubt.

 

 

   In need of extra moral support, she texts Dag a quick outline of events and ends it with the most panicked looking smiley she can find.

 

 

   Moments later, the reply ticks in.

 

 

   Steaming tea cup emoji, rainbow emoji, and hug emoji just about make sense to Cheedo, but they are followed by a bomb emoji and a picture of Dag's lizard, followed by a heart.

 

 

   Somehow, it's comforting, and Cheedo climbs the stairs to her room to prepare for tomorrow, because Capable's right and Cheedo should probably put some thought into what she should be wearing when Toast ruins her chances at continuing these classes.

 

 

   -

 

 

   She's followed Cheedo, although her little sister doesn't want her to, is embarrassed. Toast knows because Capable talks very loudly on the phone, and although she hadn't been paying attention she's still caught on to the fact that Capable somehow manages to be the cringe-worthily caring mum Furiosa just wasn't meant to be. Which, okay, Toast isn't feeling great about making Cheedo uncomfortable. She wants to trust Cheedo, is happy Cheedo is so trusting and secure, and she wants more than everything for Cheedo to keep feeling that way but she just -

 

 

   She doesn't trust this guy Cheedo was talking about. Scar across his face, sounds like something a criminal would have, a violent man. And she doesn't want sweet innocent Cheedo around violent men.

 

 

   It's been a little while since she's had something like this, something concrete to focus on. An immediate wrong to be righted, and it feels good and right. She can fix this thing, help Cheedo, make the world a tiny bit better and maybe then she can feel - No.

 

 

   Not going down that mental road, not right now. Focus.

 

 

   This isn't Toast's university, she hasn't been here before. The squat rectangular brick building looks not at all intimidating in the hazy morning light. Worse, she thinks, than her old school. The windows glow a pale lifeless yellow, and she can glimpse people sluggishly moving within. She expected something more dramatic, but this is it, apparently. A gull shrieks above. A car roars past. Okay. Go.

 

 

   She stops by the coffee machine, feeding it coins until it yields its caffeinated goods. It makes dying noises, and takes forever to fill up the brightly coloured paper cup. A man walks past, a teacher, she hopes, based on his age and the frankly cheesy Shakespeare quote on his t-shirt. No scar, though. Drama or English, she guesses. Probably drama, given the skinny jeans he is definitely a little old for. Nice legs, though. He notices her, gives her a sympathetic look after a meaningful glance at the machine. She glares at him on principle. Someone with hair like that has got to be at least a little awful.

 

 

   It's ten minutes before the class is supposed to start, so there's only one student in the classroom, some early twenties girl in too much flannel, staring dead eyed into her phone. Toast finds a chair in the back, settles down, glare prepared. She's ready for this fucker.

 

 

   When Cheedo comes in a minute or two before the class is due to start she looks at Toast. The annoyance is evident on her face. The look that says Capable wouldn't do this. Dag or Angharad either. Why do _you_ have to? Toast bites the inside of her cheek and ignores it. Looks at Cheedo like she's got no right to question her. The girl sighs and sits down, back turned on Toast.

 

 

   She knows she's too much. Too intense, too worried. She knows this because Cheedo has told her repeatedly, and sometimes even Furiosa gently suggests she back away a little. But Dag has moved out. Capable too, living, Toast thinks, with some boyfriend. And Angharad moved to Sydney, left them all behind. So Cheedo's the only one Toast has got. So Cheedo's got to be protected.

 

 

   Toast hasn't kept up on the details of what the others are doing. Hasn't opened her Facebook for two months, has only skimmed texts and emails enough to reply shortly. Has refused every invitation to meet and found excuses to be away when they come over to the house for dinner. Because she loves that her sisters have managed to move on, that they're happy, but it does throw her complete lack of progress into very sharp relief. And she doesn't need that rubbed in. Doesn't need more reason to feel guilty about it.

 

 

   The teacher walks in a little over five minutes past the hour, and Toast is judging him before he's even closed the door. He looks awful. Giant man in a too tight band t-shirt that shows off muscled arms and a half hidden tattoo. Scar across his face pierced in five places, metal threaded through his face. Clutching a giant mug of coffee like it's his life line. It's eight in the morning and she's got one of her own, but that doesn't stop Toast narrowing her eyes at that too. It's probably that dumb expensive stuff. Fucking hipster.

 

 

   He glances at her, eyebrows briefly raised in question, but doesn't comment. The class is smallish, only twenty odd students, and though it's only been a day he clearly knows she's not one of them. She crosses her arms, waits for him to fuck up.

 

 

   “Mornin', class,” he says, looking not at them but the computer hooked up to the projector.

 

 

   “Today we're talking 'bout self portraiture.”

 

 

   -

 

 

   All through class Cheedo feels like everyone is looking at her.

 

 

   It's ridiculous of course, because they can't possibly know that Toast is Cheedo's sister, or that Toast thwarted Cheedo and Capable this morning by leaving much earlier than them to come here and set up camp before either of them could intervene - going so far as to take Max' truck, probably without permission - but still, Cheedo feels like everyone is staring, like everyone somehow has made the connection between the angry young woman glaring daggers at the professor for no apparent reason, and Cheedo.

 

 

   So uncomfortable is she, that she actually misses most of the run-down of notable portrait artists through time, which only serves to aggravate her slowly banking temper over the whole mess because it sounds interesting and Cheedo very much does want to get as much out of the class as possible. She does pay special attention to the homework assignment, and the instructions and tips Professor Slit gives them about it, what he wants them to focus on, how to pick a subject, but most of her thoughts are given over to just how angry she is with Toast for doing this to her, for disrupting Cheedo's class for no reason, and to how long it'll be before Cheedo can tick Toast off thoroughly.

 

 

   She hasn't even had time to text Capable and let her know what's happened, because Cheedo as a strict rule does not text in classes, it's rude, but she is grateful that Capable promised she'd be here just after the class finishes so Cheedo won't have to wait here and talk to Toast more than she has to. She can just storm right off when she's done telling Toast just what she thinks of -

 

 

   “ - thanks for listening, if you have any questions about the assignment send me an email, but seriously, don't stress about it, don't over-think it, just give it a go and see where you end up, and we'll review them next class,” Professor Slit says, and just like that class is over and everyone is wrapping up their things and getting ready to leave and Cheedo looks down at her notebook in dismay to see that she has barely taken any notes at all and so she'll probably end up being the only student who has to email the teacher because she was too distracted by her ridiculous sister to pay proper attention, and the whole thing just brings her out in a hot flush and makes her so mad.

 

 

   She tosses her things into her bag haphazardly and stalks over to where Toast is still glaring at the teacher, arms crossed, mouth set, like he's wronged her personally just by existing, like she didn't just see him give a perfectly competent lesson and encourage them to experiment on their assignment and generally be a perfectly good teacher, and Cheedo feels herself swell up like a rage filled balloon, but she keeps her voice low when she hisses,

 

 

   “What the hell are you doing here? I told you not to come! I cannot believe you snuck out early just to come and glare at him!”

 

 

   Toast sends one last nasty sneering glare at Cheedo's professor, who, Cheedo is thankful for, is busy packing up his own stuff and doesn't seem to have noticed this minidrama playing out in the back of his classroom, and then she stands up like it's no big deal that she's ruining Cheedo's academic chances and says, casual as you like,

 

 

   “I told you I'd come and check it out for myself. You want a lift?”

 

 

   “No, I do not want a lift! Capable is probably waiting for me outside!” Cheedo snaps, throwing another furtive look at Professor Slit, who has now collected his belongings and is looking pensively at his coffee mug like he's contemplating whether he can find a drive-by refill before he needs to be at his next class. Cheedo grabs Toast by the arm and pulls her with her out the door, backing her up a few steps so they're out of the way and mostly hidden by the sudden surge in hallway traffic due to the changing of the classes, and then rounds on her properly to give her the business.

 

 

   “I was so distracted by you being here, I barely took any notes - I specifically told you I didn't want you here and there's no reason for you to sit in, and you chose to come anyway just so you could sit in the back and deathglare my professor like a crazy person! I told you, everything is fine, and you chose not to believe me and to do this anyway - it's not okay, Toast, you can't just gatecrash classes you're not even signed up for!” she berates, and Toast's sour expression turns sullen instead.

 

 

   “I had to see him for myself,” she argues,

 

 

   “And frankly I am still not convinced he's qualified to be a teacher - I couldn't even find out whether he had the right paperwork to be teaching these classes - ”

 

 

   “Oh my god,” Cheedo groans, exasperated,

 

 

   “Don't you think the university would have checked all that? You can't run background checks on people, Toast, I am pretty sure that is illegal, and it's creepy, and it's invasive, and it's not necessary, okay, he's a good teacher, I'm sure I'd have really liked today's class if I wasn't so embarrassed and distracted by you being there trying to set him on fire with glaring!”

 

 

   “You can't just assume that people do what they're supposed to, Cheedo - you can't just assume that people are okay because they're in a certain setting or have a certain job, there are bastards everywhere - ” Toast starts in, and Cheedo for once does not feel like letting her run on at the mouth with one of her 'trust no one, everyone is potentially out to get you, especially men' rants, they got old months ago and the wording is always the same anyway, so for once, Cheedo just points at Toast with gusto and interrupts,

 

 

   “I don't want to hear it! I am sick of hearing it! You can be paranoid on your own time, but I am not going to let that stand in my way and ruin the chances I've been given! You can find your own way home, and explain to Max why you felt the need to steal the truck and come here, and I am going to find Capable so she can drive me to my English classes, and when I get home you and I are not speaking! This was _not_ okay, Toast.”

 

 

   And with that, Cheedo storms out of the building, refusing to look back at Toast for all she can hear her calling her name in a put-upon sort of voice. Put-upon isn't good enough, she needs to be actually sorry for interfering like this, and understand why it was wrong.

 

 

   Capable is luckily parked right outside, as promised, and she honks the horn merrily at the sight of Cheedo, but when Cheedo slides into the passenger seat all the fight just seeps out of her and she finds herself buckling her seatbelt wearily and letting loose a tired sigh.

 

 

   “Tough class, sweetie?” Capable asks sympathetically, and Cheedo sighs again, curling in on herself a bit.

 

 

   “Toast was there,” she says, feeling drained, and Capable's eyes widen as she pulls away from the curb and says,

 

 

   “I see.”

 

 

   “Exactly,” Cheedo sighs, and closes her eyes, and Capable pats her knee and says nothing for the rest of the ride.

 

 

 


	3. Art Escalating Life

 

 

   The first time Slit saw Toast she looked like she wanted to punch him in the face. Slit doesn't believe in love at first sight, and this wouldn't have been it anyway, but it was the moment he knew he liked her. Knew that she was going to be fun.

 

 

    After the first two days of the semester Coma's girlfriend had texted him.

 

 

    Dag was the one who'd recommended her little sister for the programme, and Slit's grateful, because Cheedo seems a lot brighter and more cheerful than the rest of the caffeine-soaked cynical fucks that make up most of his art students.

 

 

    Slit doesn't really know Cheedo, just knows a lot _about_ her. Dag speaks of her in glowing terms, her talent, her spark, and Slit can tell just by the way she seems serious about the class from the minute she sits down and the way she's not wrapped in flannel and cynicism that she's the kind of student he can really help develop.

 

 

    But Dag's text had warned him. Had said one of their sisters who might be a tiny bit protective of Cheedo might come in to make sure Slit isn't a horrible person. Which clearly she has.

 

 

    So there's this teeny tiny angry woman sitting at the back of his class. He knows it's her because his class is small and none of his students would dare look that angrily at him. Also Cheedo keeps glancing at her and looking embarrassed.

 

 

   He can appreciate some good solid embarrassing big-sibling protectiveness. Coma is usually too sweet to mention it, but Slit knows he gets a little too… Too enthusiastic about his big brotherly duties of protection sometimes.

 

 

    Like the time he showed up at what was essentially Dag and Coma's first date and practically yelled at her for starting a fight at his little brother's concert. Of course, it hadn't sunk in that she did so in his defence, and once Slit really understood that it took him approximately half a minute to decide that yes, she might be worthy of his little brother's hand in romance.

 

 

    Mostly it's weirdly charming that this girl chooses to murder glare at him for two solid hours. Slit can respect that kind of commitment.

 

 

    He finds a short documentary on portraiture to show the class, not only because it's good and sound and helpful, but also to give himself time to sketch the small, angry lady. This is made easier by her apparently being distracted by the video. He catches Cheedo looking at him, eyebrows raised, though, so she might have caught on.

 

 

    It takes him a few tries to capture her face and movement in scratchy pencil lines, but by the end of the twenty minute video he's got a couple decent ones. He has an idea. Notes down general tones he means to use.

 

 

    She doesn't talk at all during the lesson. Squints extra hard on some of the things he says, but seems pleased when he spends a good quarter of an hour talking about the power in Frida Kahlo's self portraits after a student scoffs at her inclusion in his list of the great masters of the genre. The first year students always have some strange ideas about what is and isn't a masterpiece, but this one's especially bad. Slit notes him down, next to a sceptical smiley face.

 

 

    After, though, she scowls at him for a few minutes, while most of the other students file out and he gets his shit together. He smiles politely back. Or as politely as he can, anyway. With a face like his it's hard not to project aggression. Maybe that's part of why she looks so angry.

 

 

    Slit knows what it's like to be angry, because for nearly ten years that was his primary emotion. He still feels it a lot. Still has that urge to get in a fight and punch till no one can move any more, but he tries to put it into his paintings these days. Mostly it works. Sometimes, though, he stays in the city centre instead of driving home and gets blind angry drunk. Sleeps it off in his cramped office (shared with fucking Morsov, of all people. He's filed five complaints, but none have been taken seriously). But his paintings have gotten a lot better in the last years, so he supposes it's worth it to keep fuelling everything into them.

 

 

    Once the lesson is over Cheedo doesn't hang about, instead she's obviously in a hurry to put away her things and confront her sister, who looks remarkably unaffected by that, but it all hits a little close to home for Slit, reminds him of things, of himself, of the past he's trying to make up for these days, so he doesn't let himself pay too much attention to it, tunes them out and leaves.

 

 

    On his way to his office he gets out his phone and starts texting Dag, not too worried about being so absorbed in that when the corridors are full of students - almost everyone always gives him a really wide berth so he can text-stroll with impunity.

 

 

    Slit: _saw ur sisters 2day_

 

 

    Slit: _v. tiny & angry. Y? _

 

 

    Slit: _Cheedo seems like good student. Glad u recommended her._

 

 

    Dag: _Cheedo might be the most talented of us all yet (rainbow)(rainbow)(dolphin)(sun)_

 

 

    Seconds later a picture follows, an incredibly badly framed selfie of her and Coma giving the camera a thumbs up. It's clearly Coma who's taken it, because his face is only half in it and not really facing the camera, and Dag would never allow that to be the case.

 

 

    Slit: _Tell lil bro he's the raddest from me_

 

 

    Dag: _Always (sun)(sun)(star)(thumbsup)_

 

 

It makes Slit feel better, checking in with them, takes his mind off the way Cheedo's sister's behaviour had looked so unpleasantly familiar, but throughout the day he thinks of her angry scowl and the doodles he made and he ends up taking them home.

 

 

    -

 

 

   After that first lesson, on that first day, Cheedo doesn't speak to Toast even when she gets back from her other classes, she just gets straight to work setting up her space downstairs so she can get started on her homework, hoping it'll pull her out of her seething.

 

 

    She is so disappointed in Toast, so angry with her, that she won't even acknowledge her when she comes down for a cup of tea, but at least Toast seems to understand that and doesn't push.

 

 

    The first homework they've been given is to do a portrait. That's it. A portrait. There are no guidelines, no restraints on media or subject. And somehow, when Cheedo walked out of class earlier today, it had seemed like an easy task, and she had been confident. Now, though, she's less sure. Somehow every idea she had is gone, and she's just doodling cartoony faces in the smallest of the sketchbooks. She has all the art supplies she bought for the class spread over the living room table, and it was meant to be inspirational, but now she's just feeling overwhelmed.

 

 

    “What am I going to do?” she asks, and Dog Maxine whines sympathetically and pads closer and puts her head on Cheedo's knee.

 

 

    She scratches behind the dogs ears, and sighs. She wants badly to impress professor Slit, especially after that mess with Toast. She doesn't understand why her sister had to show up like that. She knows Toast is protective, and that maybe it's easier to be overly protective of Cheedo than to take care of herself (at least that's what Capable gently suggested earlier), but that doesn't make interfering like that okay, not even if the teacher didn't seem to mind. If anything he seemed amused, but Cheedo doesn't want to be the little kid with the weird sister who shows up all the time. She probably stands out enough already.

 

 

    Dog Maxine woofs softly, and Cheedo has to agree with her. She doesn't know what the other students are like yet, hasn't really had a chance to talk to them yet, and they're probably all very nice and talented. Probably more talented than Cheedo. They've had at least two years more than her to get better, but Cheedo submitted her portfolio, and she did get in, so Slit must think she has potential. And since she got in, that must mean she's good enough to be there. With this renewed confidence she strides into the kitchen to make herself an inspirational cup of tea.

 

 

    Half an hour later she has everything set up. She's decided to try out the little watercolour set, has the nice thick paper laid out, a pencil sharpened, a small rag, a cup of water. She's even got the masking fluid and some tape, but she's not entirely sure how to use those. In short she has everything except a subject. Dog Maxine was in the running for a little while, but Cheedo feels fairly sure that isn't what the teacher meant, and the old police dog has curled up by her feet and doesn't seem inclined to pose as dramatically as Cheedo feels she should.

 

 

    In the lecture Slit talked a lot about the importance of capturing essence. How to stop focusing so much on getting the exact angle of their jaw or the length of their nose down to the last millimetre. He said that you can capture who they are without that, that that's the important bit, and that sounds right to Cheedo. It sounds good and reassuring, because likeness can be difficult, but it also sounds like a larger truth of the genre. She likes that, the feeling of being let in on a secret. The feeling of learning.

 

 

    Her phone dings, and it's a text from Dag, asking her how everything is going. Dag's the one who really got her into the class, Cheedo knows. Her sister insists Cheedo got herself into the class, but she knows that the teacher is related to Dag's and Capable's boyfriends, and she's pretty sure that's at least part of it. So it makes sense Dag is invested.

 

 

    Cheedo replies that everything is fine, the class is great, but she doesn't know what to paint. Writes that it's got to be a portrait, but she only has two days and the weekend to do it in, and she doesn't know what to do.

 

 

    “Draw our Mother of Fury,” Dag's reply suggests, along with a string of seemingly unconnected emojis. And that's it. Cheedo can't think of someone who looks more intense, who looks more stiking. She took a photo of her when she was experimenting with photography in the spring. She took a photo of everyone in the family, but hers turned out the best, although Dog Maxine looked pretty great in hers too. She gets the photo out immediately, because Furiosa isn't due home from work for another couple of hours, and inspiration has struck, there is no time to wait.

 

 

    The lines are too hard, she thinks, and won't erase completely, even the guidelines she puts in to show the position of the eyes stand out a little under the thin coat of paint. Luckily, though, they are liquid watercolours, so she keeps adding on layers until it's almost opaque. It's not ideal, it doesn't look quite like she wants it to, but it's a solid first draft of a painting. She goes out into the garage to get some actual motor oil for the smudge over Furiosa's brow. Mixed media has got to be a good thing. She likes it, anyway. She's tempted to print a copy of the photo, glue Furiosa's eyes on to the painting, make it semi-collage, because she can't get them quite right, but she's not going to. Not for the first assignment. She'll wait for feedback, and then maybe next time she can try more advanced things like that if it's okay with the teacher.

 

 

    Cheedo looks down at her work and smiles and thinks maybe this morning's disaster with Toast doesn't have to have ruined everything.

 

 

    -

 

 

   Slit spends a lot longer than he plans to on the portrait. It was supposed to be a speed painting, just as a joke, but it ends up rather elaborate. As elaborate as he can get in watercolours, anyway. It's not his preferred medium, but it seems, somehow, more casual than acrylics or oils would have. He's not quite sure why he's putting this much effort into it. Chooses to believe that it's because she has a good face for portraiture.

 

 

    He gives it to Cheedo to bring to Toast after the next lesson, which turns out to be good timing, because Toast's not there, and Slit sort of wonders whether perhaps Cheedo forbade her from coming anymore. She might have done, he thinks, but he doesn't know Cheedo well enough to speculate on it, and anyway he finds he didn't really mind Toast's presence during the first lesson.

 

 

    The portrait speaks volumes on that.

 

 

    It's smallish, A4, fits in an envelope. A painting of Toast scowling at the viewer, arms and legs crossed, the cat shaped brass knuckles hanging from her bag clearly visible. On the back is scrawled in what he calculated to be a casual way an invitation to go out with him the week after. He wonders whether she'll destroy it.

 

 

    He gets a reply the next lesson. Cheedo looks profoundly embarrassed as she hands him an envelope back. Slit grins expectantly, and doesn't bother waiting till after class to open it. He's a minute or two early, for a change, and the stragglers are still getting settled.

 

 

    It's a drawing. Sort of. A large stick figure he supposes is meant to be him, given the oversized smile with the little rings through for his piercings. It's on lined notepaper, drawn in biro, and next to it is NO written in sharpie with an angry face. It's, well, equally disappointing and adorable.

 

 

    “Tell her thanks,” he tells Cheedo, making sure to smile.

 

 

    She doesn't look like she needs this amount of stress in her day to day life. She looks at him weirdly, but promises she will. And well, if he spends the rest of the afternoon after class doodling that glaring face framed by awkwardly clearly self-chopped hair, then that is a complete coincidence.

 

 

    –

 

 

   After Cheedo's first lesson, everyone made it very clear to Toast that she was out of line to go and crash it.

 

 

    First Cheedo, angrily, in the hallway, later on back home when she refused to speak to Toast at all.

 

 

    Then Capable, over the phone that evening, calm and kind but still reproachful, her understanding somehow making Toast feel worse.

 

 

     Dag said it all with a text that only contained three emojis but somehow was the worst of the lot.

 

 

    Furiosa actually made Toast sit down with her in the kitchen and asked her why she felt the need to go against Cheedo's express wishes like this, and Toast hadn't had a good enough answer, not really.

 

 

    All the purpose she initially felt, that drove her to do it, it's all gone, all drained out of her, so that now she's back to holing up in her room, reading things online and trying to ignore daylight.

 

 

    She knows Cheedo's got another class today but she feels ashamed about what she's done, so this morning she stayed in her blanket burrito and watched the time on her phone tick closer to Cheedo's lesson and didn't get up. She still hasn't even changed out of her pyjamas. She and Cheedo haven't really spoken since it happened - Toast tried to when Cheedo got home the first day, but Cheedo didn't want to know. She tried again when she saw Cheedo's stunning portrait of Furiosa lying on the living room table, and Cheedo graciously accepted her compliments, but that's as far as they've gotten.

 

 

    So she's a little bit surprised when Cheedo comes home, knocks on Toast's door, and thrusts an envelope under Toast's nose, blushing furiously, looking awkward and wrong-footed.

 

 

    “It's for you, I don't want to know,” Cheedo blurts out, flapping it until Toast takes it from her, and then bolting like the contact embarrassment from being in the same room as the unassuming bit of stationary is too much for her.

 

 

    Toast doesn't really get why until she opens it.

 

 

    It's a portrait of her.

 

 

   Angry, and totally recognisable, wearing the outfit she was in the other day when she crashed Cheedo's lesson, and it -

 

 

    **_That son of a bitch._ **

 

 

   _Dear Miss Toast,_ the back of it says _, it was nice seeing you in my class this week, I hope you got something out of it. Since you haven't been back I asked Cheedo to give you this - she's already shaping up to be my best student this year. Maybe if you're not too busy we could get together for coffee next week. Let me know._

 

 

The signature is a lot less pretentious than Toast had thought it would be but she registers that only dimly before the rage erupts and she's grabbing a sheet of lined note paper and a biro and scribbling at it viciously.

 

 

   How dare he. How dare he mock her, how dare he try and guilt her into having coffee with him, how dare he paint her without her consent -

 

 

   Her own note only takes a few minutes to scratch down on paper and then she gets up and marches to Cheedo's room, slamming it down on her little sister's desk and spitting,

 

 

   “Give him that!”

 

 

   She's too blind angry to notice Cheedo's reaction but gets a vague impression of eyes rolling and a long-suffering sigh, and then she stomps back to her room, where she can't help zeroing in on the picture.

 

 

   That utter bastard, she fumes, that complete asshat - !

 

 

   She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, tousled and scowling and in pyjamas that are three days old, and then she snatches the portrait off her desk and stabs it through with a thumbtack to attach it to her notice board.

 

 

   She should have known better than to let go of the anger so soon. This proves what she was saying all along - he can't be trusted, and she's going to make sure that doesn't negatively impact Cheedo, regardless of what her little sister wants to believe about him being anything other than a self-involved idiot.

 

 

   Nodding to herself, she sits down to do a more thorough internet search on him. There's got to be stuff she missed last time.

 

 

   -

 

 

   Fresh from the humiliation of having to hand Professor Slit a doubtlessly very rude reply to the note he asked her to give to Toast after her last - blissfully Toast-free lesson - the class has to present and explain their assignments, which was what Cheedo was afraid of. She sits nervously in her chair, folder containing her portrait of Furiosa clutched tight in her hands. She's almost shaking, both from nervousness and from the too large amount of coffee she's had after a too-short night. The art class is important to her, and she realised too late she had been focusing almost exclusively on that, and spent half the night feverishly finishing her regular homework instead of sleeping.

 

 

   Professor Slit gives quite brutal critiques to the students, she thinks, but they are probably fair. He tells each of them what they've done right and wrong, but mostly, it seems to her, they've all done quite a lot wrong. Either it's too clinical, and shows only features and no personality, or the colour use is off, or the proportions are wrong. She had thought the quality of work was quite good, and now she feels even more scared. Of course, these people are all actual university students, and maybe he is harder on them, but she doesn't want him to go easy on her because she's younger or because he knows her sister, either.

 

 

   “Cheedo? You're up next,” he says, and when she looks at him he gives her what she thinks is an encouraging smile.

 

 

    It's kind of hard to judge, the scars and piercings making all his expressions vaguely threatening. He seems to be aware of this being the case though, or maybe she just looks scared, because he gives her a thumbs up, and that actually makes it a little easier to go up to the front of the room.

 

 

    “Okay,” she says, getting the picture out, squinting in the bright light,

 

 

   “Okay right.”

 

 

   She holds the picture up for everyone to see, and briefly regrets not making it larger than the A4 of her watercolour sketchbook. The other students look mainly disinterested or nervous, but Professor Slit nods to himself, and jots something down on his piece of paper and she can only hope it's good.

 

 

   “This is, uh, this is called Our Mother of Fury. I wanted to do a portrait of me and my sisters' adopted mum, because- because she is the most inspiring and striking person I know, and I thought she'd be a, uh, a good subject. I did it in watercolour, but the stains are actual motor oil. I kind of wanted to add some collage elements, mix in photography, but I wasn't sure that was what the assignment was about, and-”

 

 

   She talks too much and too fast and she can hear how nervous she sounds. She tries to remember what bits all the other students explained, but her mind is blank, so she babbles nonsense for a minute or two instead.

 

 

   Professor Slit looks at her with approval when she comes to a halting finish, though, so it must not have gone as badly as she thought.

 

 

    “Good,” Professor Slit says, and that's a more positive note than the others got, so she releases her iron grip on her portrait a little, although the indents her nails left in the thick paper are probably permanent.

 

 

   “Good choice in subject. The personality shines clearly through, and it's good you tried a new medium you weren't used to. The technique needs a little polishing, and the proportions are slightly off, but that's easy to fix. I liked the inclusion of mixed media, though. You should go with your gut and include collage the next time, okay? Don't be afraid to experiment.”

 

 

   And that? That's pretty good, she feels pretty good. So she thanks him, and promises that she will, and although she can't quite stop being shaky, she feels a lot better as she sits down to watch the rest of the presentations. Feels like she's learning already, hands itching to find a sketchbook and some glue and old photos, excited to make something new and even better. This is going to be a good year, she thinks.

 

 

    -

 

 

   That lasts until she gets home. Toast immediately pounces on her, demanding,

 

 

   “So? What'd he say? About the note?”

 

 

   Cheedo just about manages to quell her desire to snap.

 

 

   “He just said to tell you thanks. And I'm telling you not to do that again. I'm not going to be your weird go-between - if you want to talk to him, you can go and do it properly like a grown up,” she tells her, and okay maybe it is a little snappish but Toast doesn't so much look chastised as she looks.... inspired.

 

 

   “Toast - Toast do not come to any more lessons - ” Cheedo warns her as Toast's eyes light up with fervent zeal and Cheedo realises her error,

 

 

   “Toast I mean it - ”

 

 

   “You want us to talk like grown ups, Cheedo, we can do that. Maybe we should,” Toast says ominously, disappearing up the stairs again to her room before Cheedo has a chance to say anything else, and so all she can do is throw her bag onto the couch violently and get out her art supplies to start working on assignment Mother Of Fury 2.0 - Mixed Media.

 

 

   -

 

 

   Toast changes her approach this time.

 

 

   She doesn't follow Cheedo to the lesson, instead she waits, arrives with twenty minutes to spare, and lurks outside.

 

 

   She can see everything from the window in the door, and hear him.

 

 

   He is insufferable, he really is, talking about art like he knows something, like he's better than everyone. Actually he might know a little bit about art, she suspects he does, because she checked out his qualifications online, but she will not be lured in by his pretty paintings, those do not make him less of a smug and threatening bastard. Toast is not convinced this class is good for Cheedo, is not convinced it doesn't do more harm, doesn't disrupt her innate creativity more than it helps.

 

 

    “But it does!” Cheedo had insisted the night before, when Toast came down to see what she was working on,

 

 

   “Can't you see? Look at the difference just in these two!”

 

 

   Toast hadn't seen much difference between the two portraits, but art is not her thing, and so the improvement might have been there, if too subtle for untrained eyes to see. The work looks great to her either way, but she can admit that she is a tiny bit biased when it comes to gorgeous portraits of Furiosa done by her little sister who is objectively the best artist of her or perhaps any generation.

 

 

   When the lecture is over and the students begin to file out, discussing their new assignment and whether they can shoehorn their favourite style or inspiration into it while the professor turns a seemingly blind eye to their plotting.

 

 

   Toast isn't interested in that, or in them. She walks in like she owns the place and plants herself by the door so there's no way he can ignore her or escape without her saying her piece first.

 

 

   “Miss Toast. Is there a problem?” the guy asks, all innocent, when he's finally done getting his crap together and seems ready to leave, drifting over to her in a vaguely irritating manner she might describe as sauntering - too much swing in his hips for a guy his size, over-confident just because he's bigger and this is his domain.

 

 

   “Yes,” she says, squinting at that mangled and thoroughly pierced face.

 

 

   She is mildly surprised that he doesn't have any facial tattoos, or more of those in general, he seems like he would have, but he's wearing a tshirt today, and when he reached up to pull down the projector screen she caught a glimpse or a dark image on his upper arm and she just bets it's a dumb pretentious art reference. A Mona Lisa in the style of Picasso or some shit like that. Not that she was looking at his arms of course, she wouldn't, although she supposes they are, quite scientifically speaking, rather nice arms. She catches herself wondering briefly whether painting is that physically taxing, but that's not it, that's not why she is here, she has more important things to do.

 

 

    “Yes,” she repeats, because he's staring at her, looking down at her which he probably can't help, being a foot taller than she is, at least, but it still feels like an insult like so many things do, and it confuses her enough that for a moment she can't think clearly enough to formulate why this is so.

 

 

   He looks at her expectantly for a moment, then when she doesn't say anything else, he fills in the now-awkward silence with,

 

 

   “Let's talk it out, then, follow me.”

 

 

   “Someone else needs the room for another class,” he adds when she makes no move to do as he says.

 

 

    She can see Cheedo out of the corner of her eye because she's not willing to break eye contact with him and make him think he's won, and she'd sort of hoped that not actually crashing this lesson would make Cheedo less mad about it but Cheedo looks furious so no luck there.

 

 

   Toast follows him reluctantly when he gestures for her to leave the room first, like pretending to be a gentleman will get him off the hook, but she feels like something's off, something's not quite right, and she can hear herself telling him off but she's not even paying attention to that, she's mapping out where they are going, memorizing turns because what if? They're in a public building, in a public place, but bad things happen everywhere, she of all people would know, and so she sends off a badly spelled text to Cheedo saying to call if she doesn't text back within twenty minutes.

 

 

   He leads her into a small office, and she is in the middle of telling him that she is having her police officer adoptive dad look him up because she is utterly convinced he has a record, with a face like that he can hardly not, when he catches her by surprise.

 

 

   “Coffee?” he offers, mild and polite, and she halts her diatribe without registering how far she'd gotten with it because she wasn't expecting him to sound deferent.

 

 

   “Sure,” she says before she can think, and then the noise from a fancy chrome coloured machine drowns out any attempts at her fair and just and clearly badly needed criticism.

 

 

   He hands her a cup while the machine screeches and groans through the production of the second cupful and she sips it and although it burns her tongue it is really absurdly delicious, and then she stiffens because she shouldn't have just accepted it, she should have at least waited until he'd drunk some of his own and she feels stupid for not remembering to, for letting these ridiculous pleasantries and rules of etiquette get past her caution.

 

 

   He is watching her face, and the taste catches her by surprise enough that the appreciation is probably clear on it, because he smirks. She just hopes the coffee isn't drugged, but she watched him rinse out the cups and she doesn't think that particular machine can be manipulated and anyway she is hardly planning on staying long enough for anything to kick in, all thoughts which comfort her and soothe the growing paranoia.

 

 

   “So what is it you - ”  he begins, but his questioning, whatever vile accusations he has planned to throw in her face, is interrupted when the door opens.

 

 

   Toast thinks she recognizes the guy, with his inappropriate skinny jeans and ridiculous hair and a Chekhov shirt no one not in drama would be caught alive in.

 

 

   He smiles cordially at Professor Slit, who rolls his eyes and glares and maybe, just maybe, this guy isn't as bad as she thought. Or maybe he's worse.

 

 

   “Fuck off, Morsov,” he says to the new arrival, who smiles like it's an old joke, but Toast can't see any joke in Slit's face, though, just pure disgust, and if anything this just confirms everything she fears. She remembers this guy and thinking his hair alone is reason enough to hate him but she can't see that he's done anything to warrant that kind of response.

 

 

   “Relax, Slit, just coming in to get some papers. Who's your friend there?” the newcomer asks, and Toast doesn't trust him either, bristles at the way he doesn't ask her directly, but at least he seems incompetently harmless rather than actively threatening.

 

 

   “Just a concerned, uh, guardian,” Slit says, and his glare does not falter for a moment,

 

 

   “Now get outta my office.”

 

 

   “Our office,” the guy, _Morsov_ , reminds him, but picks up the papers he needs and leaves with a polite smile which Toast feels is as fake as his hair volume.

 

 

   “What a dick,” Slit mutters to himself, and Toast can't help but agree and feels a twinge of sympathy that she quickly drowns with more too-hot coffee because she'll be damned if she relents now and starts taking his side on anything.

 

 

    She would have preferred milk in her coffee, but she's not about to show any weakness in front of this asshole, and she squints at him until he looks back down at her, and they glare into each others' eyes for an awkward moment.

 

   “So what seems to be the problem?” he demands, but he's looking so pleased with himself she doubts he'll accept any criticism in a meaningful way.

 

 

   “It's - ”

 

 

   And she pauses, because she finds in that moment that she doesn't actually have an answer. There's nothing she has observed that technically proves his _teaching_ is substandard, nothing specific enough and she can see his smirk widen and -

 

 

   “You threatened students; that's got to be illegal.”

 

 

   “Threatened? Not sure what you mean?” His eyes widen and then screw up in confusion like he really honestly doesn't have a clue what she's on about, and that is such a guy thing, just deflecting, pretending he's done nothing wrong, and it fills her with such fury -

 

 

   “You said you'd fail them if they asked about your face,” she accuses and he has the audacity to _laugh._

 

 

   “'S a joke,” he tells her, like that explains or justifies it,

 

 

   “It's not a story for the classroom,” he adds at her continued murder glare, and then after another beat where she cranks it up a notch and raises an eyebrow for effect, he goes on,

 

 

   “It's personal, and that's not how the grades even work, there are external censors. I just don't want anyone talkin' about it, and saying that usually does the trick. I'll let you have a look at the grading regulations, if that helps?”

 

 

   Which just isn't fucking fair, how fucking dare he have a piss poor excuse like that at the ready?

 

 

   He even continues, all earnest and sincere like he really wants this cleared up,

 

 

    “I've talked with the Uni 'bout this, they say it's fine, they get that I don't want to or need to explain it to the kids in the class, and usually all it does is inspire a spark of fear that makes them actually listen to me after years of ignoring their school teachers,” he tells her and he's not even paying attention to her angry glares now, the fucker.

 

 

   In fact he looks suddenly concerned and asks,

 

 

    “Cheedo hasn't complained about it has she? Not said I made her uncomfortable or anythin'?” like he's really worried, and that almost makes her feel bad for following him here and complaining at him the whole way, but she will not give in, her issues are legitimate and -

 

 

   “No, not really,” Toast has to admit, although it hurts, and she can't look him in the eye.

 

 

    “Ah, good. Was worried there, she seems like an excellent student so far. Lot nicer than the proper uni kids, y'know? Actually wants to learn and listens to my suggestions, you wouldn't believe how few of them actually do. Such a relief to see a few sketchbook pages filled with practise on the things I told her she needs to improve a little on, I think she's gonna do really well in this class.”

 

 

   And obviously he's trying to pretend he's not so terrible, trying to trick her into thinking he's all right after all, despite his face, despite his attitude, but what he is telling her about Cheedo at least has got to be right, hasn't it? Because she is extraordinarily talented and a great student and the nicest young girl in the entirety of Australia and maybe even the world. And it all starts to unravel, then, and she suddenly begins to doubt why she is even here, why did she follow this guy to yell at him when -

 

 

   No, he deserves it, he deserves all the criticism, but maybe Cheedo is right, maybe she really is making things worse but -

 

 

   “Cheedo is the best student you'll ever have, she doesn't _need_ to improve, and unlike _some_ people, she'd never paint someone without their consent like a creeper,” Toast hisses viciously, finally locking into the thing that's been filling her with fire and purpose all day, waiting to sink her teeth into the real issue here.

 

 

    He looks somewhat taken aback, which is sort of what she was going for, but he doesn't look nearly as contrite as she'd hoped for.

 

 

    “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable - it didn't occur to me that it might,” he says honestly, and then he has the gall he crack a splitting grin - only kind he can crack with that nightmare face she thinks harshly, and add,

 

 

    “I liked yours though, it was funny!”

 

 

   “Rejection isn't supposed to be funny, you idiot,” she snaps, stung, because she is not a joke and her decisions are not funny they are serious and should be taken seriously and how fucking dare he even ask her out if he didn't mean it enough to care about being rejected, is that the kind of douchebag he is, just randomly hitting on people like some creepy opportunist?

 

 

   “Thanks for the coffee,” she manages to say, setting the cup down on the desk too hard.

 

 

   “Toast, I'm sorry - I won't paint you again if you'd rather I didn't,” he offers, and that is contrite, but she's done, because it's one thing to not be taken seriously but it's another for him to take it all so lightly, like none of it matters, her anger doesn't matter, her rejecting him doesn't matter, her sister's obvious stellar talent isn't good enough for him and needs to be improved upon - who the fuck does he think he is?

 

 

   “You had better not,” she spits,

 

 

  “And you needn't bother anyway, Cheedo could do a better job than you in her sleep - if you think you can actually teach her anything you're dreaming!”

 

 

   His brow does furrow at that but she can't read his expression through the scars and the weirdly chosen piercings - whatever else may be true of him he is clearly an egotistical self-aggrandising bastard, no other kind of person would choose to draw attention to facial scarring that hideous if they didn't have a severely elevated opinion of themselves, no wonder he struts around like he's God's gift - all artists are the same -

 

 

   “I'm sorry you feel that way, but I do hope Cheedo gets something out of the course,” he replies carefully, which just makes her angrier - she doesn't need to be conversationally coddled, why doesn't he just sack up and yell at her if she's pushed some buttons, maybe she could actually respect him a little then,

 

 

   “And if you have any critiques of my teaching methods I'd be happy to hear them. You're always welcome to sit in on classes if you want to.”

 

 

   “I don't need your permission to do anything,” she shouts, and she's angry as hell that he's pushed her into raising her voice so she's the one who looks unreasonable, and then she's even angrier that he doesn't respond, doesn't remind her that she actually probably does need his or some other member of faculty's permission to sit in on lessons that she's not paying for.

 

 

    “Of course not,” he says finally, and it’s - it's too soft, not coddling, not patronising, it's - he really does sound upset, like he agrees with her, and there's a little too much beaten puppy in his eyes, and she feels herself backing away but then forces herself to stop.

 

 

   “You can come anytime though, really, I don't mind,” he tells her, and she has no response to that except,

 

 

   “Maybe I will.”

 

 

   They just look at each other for another minute again, and it's even more awkward than before, but then he smiles sort of tentatively and she finds herself thinking it looks a little painful, and that's the last straw.

 

 

    She can feel his eyes on her as she concentrates very hard on walking out calmly, on not running, on not looking as distressed as she feels.

 

 

    “Nice talking to you,” he calls after her but she's not listening, she is texting Cheedo to never mind and deciding that maybe when she gets back to the house she is never leaving again.

 

 

 


	4. Exposition And Emotional Avoidance Tactics For Fun And Profit (Now With Lizards)

 

 

 

   Slit's at home.

 

 

   Just being here makes it easier to breathe, makes him feel a little more relaxed, the constant tension of pent-up aimless aggression fading as much as it ever does, like the whole house is enveloping him in security and comfort, just like it has from the moment he first came here.

 

 

   It's why he's been mostly staying here instead of in his apartment in town since a few months before last term ended - basically holed up in his childhood bedroom all summer, painting in the garden and lying on the living room floor in front of the porch doors listening to music from back before everything went wrong and trying to forget he exists.

 

 

   He doesn't even remember what triggered it this time, if anything concrete even really did. This just happens. The walls of his own apartment start closing in on him at night until he can't sleep unless he's playing his old albums cranked as far up as they'll go, until the neighbours start complaining about that - not to him but to the landlord, no one in their right mind would complain at Slit about that directly which he's sort of grateful for even though it's because he looks scary; he'll take that if it means he can avoid direct guilt when faced with sleep-deprived neighbours any day - until he starts just staying up all night to draw or to paint, and he's never getting his deposit back because it's all over the walls and floors by now and he doesn't really care about it anymore.

 

 

   He doesn't really care about anything anymore, except his family, and because they're not stupid, they notice.

 

 

   Aunty Valkyrie always knows when he's getting worse, he's no good at pretending with her, she sees right through him and he can't duck out of their weekly Skype appointment so she always knows, usually tells him to ' _ go home, recharge, start over, don't worry baby 'zilla, you're gonna be fine _ ', and Slit's also no good at not taking his godmother's advice because even though she's miles away she knows best and he'll never be too old for her to show up out of the blue with his other Aunties just to make him see sense.

 

 

   The thing about being home, though, is that Slit never wants to leave, and it's been worse this time than usual. He's been finding excuses not to go out even for short trips and basic stuff, and dragging himself out of bed to go and teach his classes has been harder and harder - at one point during the last month of his last term before summer he took a whole week off work citing illness even though he was physically fine - timing it so it wouldn't overlap with anything where his students might need him to be available - just so he wouldn't have to go in at all. Not because he hates his job or he hated his students. Or even because he hates sharing an office with Morsov.

 

 

   Mostly it was because it was getting too hard to ignore how much he hates himself.

 

 

   It still isn't good. He hasn't really been to his apartment to spend the night yet so far this term, just to get various things he keeps there and come back home, and he's starting to think of it more as a kind of storage space than anything else, which he knows is a step in the wrong direction, but it's just... hard.

 

 

   He's actually feeling pretty good about work now that this term is properly underway, and not for the first time he feels a flood of affectionate thankfulness well up in his chest for Dag being in Coma's life and how that has enriched everything else they touch upon, including Slit's much more boring existence.

 

 

   Dag was right when she recommended her little sister Cheedo for Slit's class, not that Slit couldn't tell based on the submitted portfolio, but Cheedo really has proven a breath of fresh air, so much more positive and energetic than the students Slit usually has, so much less constrained by the things draining the life and colour out of the rest of them, and it makes her approach to art novel. It helps that Slit can tell just how much she wants to be there, how badly she wants to prove she got her place on merit - and she did, she deserves it - but she's working really hard and it's a joy to see.

 

 

   Turns out Dag's right about most things, Slit thinks fondly as he turns his head to look at the wall next to the fireplace, covered in pictures of his beautiful brothers and their wonderful lives and the wonderful people in them - even a few where he hadn't been quick enough to duck out of the way and has promised Ace to leave unmolested.

  
  


   Without Dag, Slit has no doubt Coma wouldn't be nearly as successful as he has become, and although Slit loved it, he admits that he wasn't as adventurous in the same way back when he was the one in charge of Coma's 'look'. That's been all Dag, since they agreed she should take over that part of things, and Slit can finally admit now that it's been more than a year that there are parts of Coma's musical landscape that Dag seems to grasp more wholly than Slit does, letting her tap into the best way to bring it into the visual realm. 

 

 

   Looking back out onto the lawn, Slit finds himself thinking of how inconceivable Dag would have been -  _ was _ , actually - even as a  _ concept _ , just a few years ago. How the idea of there being someone out there in the world who would, or even could, love and understand Coma like that was.

 

 

   Not to Slit - he always believed, because the way he sees his brothers makes it impossible not to. They shine so bright, they always have, it would be crazy for that light not to attract people who can understand how brilliant they are, but Slit understands now in a way he didn't when he was barely eighteen that Coma was right, then, as a despondent reclusive sixteen-year old, to tell his older brother that he was dreaming to think that Coma as he was at the time was in a position to find anyone like that to connect with. 

 

 

   It didn't make it any less painful for Slit to watch his isolated little brother retreat even further in on his genius, using it like a shield against the world, and it doesn't ease the hurt of the memory of it, but at least now Slit really understands what Ace meant back then when he pulled Slit aside and told him to leave it alone. 

_ “He's right, lad,” _ Ace had said, forging on quickly when Slit had immediately bristled,

 

 

_ “Not about there bein' no point thinkin' about all that - about not bein' able to force it. You can't force the world to see what you see, Slit. It has to happen on its own.” _

 

 

_    “I just want to help it along - it's not Coma's fault the world's too fucking stupid to recognise how great he is, it's not fair - ” _

 

 

_ “No. It's not,”  _ Ace had told him, cutting across his rage gently but firmly,

 

 

_    “But trying to make it happen when he's asked you not to, that's not fair either. He's been through enough, lad. Give him time. Give him room. You can't drop him in at the deep end and expect a miracle - he's right about that, too. If he's not ready to be out there, nothing you can say or do will make good things come of trying to make him, or bringing whatever's out there to him before he can face it. Leave it be.” _

 

 

_    “I want him to be happy,” _ Slit remembers crying, stubborn tears working their way down his face without his consent, because it's been a constant undertone almost all his life, just wanting his brothers to be happy, and he remembers Ace sighing, dragging him in with a comforting hand at the base of Slit's neck, resting their foreheads together and telling him,

 

 

_    “ I know, lad. But you can't force that either. All you can do is be there.”  _

 

 

   ... so maybe Slit's been a little too aggressive at 'being there'. His whole life. Or at least for as long as he's been in control of that part of things.

 

 

   And maybe it's not so healthy. It's not, Slit knows that, it's not 'maybe', it's really not.

 

 

   So maybe that's why he feels for Dag and Cheedo's sister, because in Toast, Slit sees himself ten years ago. And himself five years ago. And the way he still gets when he doesn't keep a lid on it well enough. Or drinks too much. Or on the really bad anniversaries of the really bad stuff.

 

 

   And maybe that's why he wishes he could help her, why he's not really mad at all at the way she's reacted to him being in Cheedo's life, to this sign that Cheedo's growing up. Slit knows the cold fear that grips at the slightest sign that you're being left behind by the people you live to protect, that you're the only one not growing, not moving past the bad, not quite able to hold on to the good hard enough when it finally does come.

 

 

   It's why he's so constantly grateful that Coma and Nux have managed that, why he's so supportive of everything they've done to do that, the people they've found who manage to help with that in ways Slit now realises he never could have, because you can't lift anyone else when you're hanging on to the ledge by your fingernails, not with the best will in the world.

 

 

   He may know that but that doesn't mean he's happy about accepting it.

 

 

   “What'ya doin', lad?”

 

 

   Slit drags his eyes away from the garden and towards the doorway, where Ace is leaning against the frame looking as calm and impassive as ever.

 

 

   “Just...” he glances down at the sketchbook in his lap, bathed in light from the windows, the roughly sketched outline of two people who haven't sat on this lawn like that for over a decade. Won’t ever again.

 

 

   “Drawin',” Ace provides, walking over and rubbing a large calloused hand over Slit's bare head, letting Slit lean against his leg and close his eyes.

 

 

   “Yeah,” Slit sighs, breathing in the smells of disassembled machines and living dust.

 

 

   “'S good,” Ace says gruffly, resting his fingers over Slit's cheek and the metal embedded there,

 

 

   “Miss when you were that small. Bunch'a hellions.”

 

 

   “'Cept Coma,” Slit mumbles at once, the syllables lazy passing his lips, too exhausted suddenly to speak, the weight of memory seeping into his bones just like the warmth from the sun intensified through glass, making his limbs syrup-heavy.

 

 

   “Yeah, except Coma,” Ace agrees, stroking the line of Slit's permanent frown with his thumb,

 

 

   “Speakin' of - they're comin' ta see ya. Nux called.”

 

 

   “Yeah?” Slit asks, perking up a bit, and squinting up through the dust-motes at Ace's face. He's looking out over the garden too, stoic to anyone but one of his own. Slit knows he's seeing the same ghost that's on the page in Slit's lap.

 

 

   “Yeah. En route. Be here any minute,” Ace confirms, and Slit nods a bit, feels his father's hand shift over his head and closes his eyes again, pressing his nose into the rough-worn cargos and taking another deep breath.

 

 

   For a few seconds, he's seven years old again. The house is full of life and laughter. His brothers are outside with Mum, and Slit's inside drawing them through the window, the sound of Coma's guitar drifting through the air like the smell of Ace's morning coffee as they enjoy a quiet Sunday morning. He still can’t bring himself to look at the picture over the sofa where Mum’s smiling face and how much she loved them sees everything he’s failing to do with his life, though.

 

 

   “Come on, soldier,” Ace prompts, squeezing the base of Slit's neck and letting go, moving away, and Slit shakes off some of the lethargy and nods to himself, picking his stuff off the floor and dumping it on the table.

 

 

   From outside, the other side of the house, he can hear the approaching screech of electric guitars, the churn of a dirt road, and his little brother whooping. 

 

 

   Getting up feels like too much work, but it clears his head a bit, and on his way to the kitchen he passes the picture of Nux and Capable, in Nux' racer, Capable's arms around his neck as they laugh, and Slit has to squeeze his eyes shut against the sudden memory of clambering over that hood, bodywork twisted and charred, pulling Nux' limp, battered body through the shattered windshield of that car, onto the ground, and the relief, the  _ relief _ when he opened hazy blue eyes.

 

 

   The horror at the disappointment in them, disappointed to have not gone up in a blaze of glory.

 

 

   Winning not enough, not the real goal.

 

 

   For a moment Slit can hear the panicked shouts, smell the burning rubber and leather, feel the wounds on his arms from the glass shards.

 

 

   “DAD! SLIT!” Nux hollers from the open front door, tearing through it, and it shakes Slit out of the past, forces him into the present when Nux collides with his chest, knocking the wind out of him and planting a big kiss on his cheek.

 

 

   “Nux,” he manages, muffled in Nux' exuberance, peeking past the flurry of limbs to see Coma with an arm around Ace in the kitchen, and Slit feels his face crack in a real smile, first one in days,

 

 

   “Welcome home!”

 

 

   -

 

 

   Getting rid of the kitchen door was a good idea, Ace thinks.

 

 

   Doesn't matter that it's been years since they did, years since the first, last, and only time Nux ran smack into it and hurt himself, every time his boy comes through the doorway Ace is reminded.

 

 

_ Good call, love, _ he thinks,  _ you always knew what was best for 'em. _

 

 

   This is a house that was built for a family, for loud, boisterous, dearly beloved kids to tear around and tear apart - or try to, anyway, because it's built to last - to paint on and scuff up and to welcome them back whenever they've been gone.

 

 

   That's why Ace is glad they still do. Still come back. It's why he's glad this is their retreat.

 

 

   Doesn't mean he doesn’t wish they felt safer out there in the world, but he'll never begrudge them their place here.

 

 

   Watching Nux pull up to the house from the open front door, kill the engine, and dart out of the car to streak across the drive and throw himself at him, Ace can't help grinning, catching his middle child round the middle same as when he was a kidlet and holding him for a few seconds as Nux kisses his cheek and loudly calls for his older brother.

 

 

   Coma picks his way towards the noise carefully, not that there's anything there to trip him up, never has been, but this is a scene that's played itself out so many times before, every part of it is familiar, every part of it is home, is the way it should be, right down to the way Nux releases Ace the moment he sees Slit over Ace's shoulder to jump on him instead, and Coma follows Nux' example, only slightly more subdued, reaching for Ace before he's quite there, so Ace can fold him into a tight hug, murmuring,

 

 

   “There's my boy, how ya doin'?”

 

 

   “Hey, Dad. I'm good, you?” Coma mumbles, his voice soft as always, that note of gratitude always there, like until that moment he couldn't be sure home would be there like it's always been, and Ace hugs him tighter for that, then leads him into the house one arm over his shoulders, watching Nux curl into Slit across the room and Slit's smile.

 

 

   First real one in days. Good. 

 

 

   “Yeah, I'm alright,” he assures his youngest, walking him into the living room where Nux and Slit are already piled up on the big corner sofa, arms around each other, and letting Coma go to watch him find his way over there too, naturally.

 

 

   It's always reminded Ace of puppies, the way they pile on top of each other - when they were small they'd sometimes fall asleep like that outside or in their room, like napping was contagious, and a part of Ace is proud to see that no matter how big they've gotten they still share space like it's normal, they still want to be close.

 

 

_ We did something right there, love, _ he thinks with a glance at the picture hanging over the sofa, over the boys' heads. Gen’s smile looks down on them all and Ace knows whatever else he might have done wrong, for their boys to still look now the way they do in her arms in that picture, he hasn’t failed them yet.

  
  


   “No Nitro with you?” Slit asks with an air of depressed hope, looking around like the pup’ll materialise out of thin air like it wouldn’t have already been all over them if Nux had brought him along - shame he hasn’t, he and Capable haven’t had Nitro long but he’s already shown himself a handy way to help Slit relax a little, and it’s given Ace enough room to regret not letting the lads have a pup of their own years ago when the Pet Question was on the table and ultimately got shelved because Ace didn’t think it was a good idea to pile unnecessary responsibility on top of everything else his boys were dealing with back then, and Coma insisted he didn’t want a guide dog for practical purposes when they discussed  _ that  _ because he never went anywhere so there wasn’t any need - and Nux shakes his head, apologising,

  
  


   “Sorry - Capable’s got him at the shelter, wanted him for socialising exercises with some of the new admissions,” and Slit perks up again, a bit too fast on,

  
  


   “Any lizards?”

  
  


   Slit’s lifelong ambition to own a lizard will remain a source of amusement to Ace until his dying day - from the first strange but recognisable drawing of a four-legged green thing with a long snaky tongue Slit shyly showed his new mum to the occasional doodle Ace still spies on the covers of Slit’s sketchbooks to this day, it’s something he’ll never not associate with his eldest son, and it’s one of the never-changing aspects of him that will always be sweet to Ace’s fatherly eye.

  
  


   Nux shakes his head again, even more apologetic because he’s always had a hard time dealing with knowing he could have done something to make his brothers happy but hasn’t actually done it, and Slit’s face crumples a bit - as much as it can without him trying to force an expression through the damage - but Coma gently picks up the thread, steering things away from the difficult issue of Slit’s prospective pet ownership.

  
  


   “If you want, you can come back with me to Dag’s and see Lizzy - it’s been a while,” he suggests, and Ace can’t help smiling at him even though Coma will never know, just hoping his boy  _ does  _ know how much his old dad appreciates his efforts to get Slit out of the house, but although it’s clear enough Slit’s revved-up with the thought of going home with Coma to see Dag’s lizard, it’s just as clear Slit doesn’t really want to commit to leaving the house today, and in the end he squirms and smiles and says,

  
  


   “Yeah, maybe?” and Coma smiles back and leaves it for now, an opening for Slit to ask,

  
  


   “How is Dag, anyway? Haven’t spoken to her in a bit...” and that’s the way to get Coma to carry a conversation, these days, has been since he met the girl, and Ace could not be happier for it. Slit knows it too, no doubt exactly why he set the ball rolling, because nothing makes him happier than seeing his brothers happy, and it’s just another thing that sends Ace thinking fondly of how he and Gen can’t have done too shit a job.

  
  


_ Then again _ , he muses, with another glance at the picture above their heads,  _ they were always good kids. We were never short on love in this house and it’s grown with them. You’d be so proud... _

  
  


   All Coma’s news of Dag’s doings and comings and goings wash over Ace as he sits back silently and watches his boy light up the room, Coma suddenly taking up space in a way he usually reserves solely for the stage when shielded by a guitar and the knowledge that he’s in his element, letting himself be heard and be happy.

  
  


   It’s incredible enough just to see  _ that _ , having been there for the time when it seemed no amount of waiting or support or guitars wailing from dawn til dusk was ever going to be enough to restore Coma’s voice let alone give him any sense of a future worth seeking, and later, for the time afterwards, when he was more house-bound by choice than Slit’s ever been and even more sure than even  _ Slit  _ was at the time that there would  _ never  _ be a life outside these walls, and no one outside the family to share it with, but watching his youngest now, waving elegant hands around to express things that just a few years ago even Slit wasn’t convinced anymore that Coma could ever experience - hands that have crafted songs the world is now starting to wake up to, in large part due to the support Dag’s proven herself to be - Ace is amazed at how far Coma’s come, how much he’s grown from the shy, secluded kid he was not that long ago.

  
  


   He’s seen Coma on the  _ telly _ , even if it has been just the local or the odd morning show so far, talking about his album and his band and their success and how it’s more than most musicians ever get to see, and Ace has been so proud in those moments he’ll never have the words, but as a father, seeing Coma just walk down the street in broad daylight with a girl made of moonbeams and clouds on his arm and her blue monitor lizard curled around his neck under the hair that curls so much like Gen’s used to, just going about daily life with a smile on his face and a spring in his careful step is still what gets Ace the most, what hits him hardest, and that’s what he sees in  _ these  _ moments where his boys are all together, all celebrating the kind of happiness that only comes from finding your place.

  
  


   “That’s really great,” Slit gushes once Coma’s update trails off into dreamy smiling and he sits back to pick at his sleeve again the way he does sometimes when he doesn’t have a guitar to pick at instead, a habit formed after years of only rarely not having an instrument to hand, and Ace nods encouragingly as Slit goes on,

  
  


   “Have you and Dag talked about touring the new album yet? I mean - you don’t have to, obviously, but it came up on that show the other morning and Dag hasn’t said anything...”

  
  


   Even just last year, Ace thinks, there is no way in hell or on this earth that Coma would have even  _ considered  _ leaving home to do any kind of tour for his upcoming album. Even just asking him if he’d  _ thought  _ about it would have been met with overly-modest denials and hesitant refusals and nervous silence and the unspoken looming fear of addressing the reality that Coma can’t plan for that kind of thing - not because they couldn’t divvy up audiences around the country to see him play, but because he’d feel like he needed too much help to pull something like that off.

  
  


   Coma can’t just get in a van with five other guys from his band and tour the country. Not that his Doof Crew aren’t a good lot or anything, but because there’d be too much Coma couldn’t do for himself in a situation like that, with unfamiliar surroundings changing constantly, and Coma has never been any good at asking for help with that sort of challenge outside the family, never confident enough in his standing with other people - even close friends or people he’s known for ages like his band - to feel comfortable asking or safe relying on their help.

  
  


   Until Dag.

  
  


   Ace knows with complete certainty that if it hadn’t been for Dag, Coma would still be recording things on a shoe-string set-up from his childhood home, doing the odd local gig mostly at Slit’s behest and otherwise living the life of a recluse. Not because Ace and Nux and Slit haven’t been completely supportive of Coma’s musical aspirations, or because Coma doesn’t have the talent and work ethic in spades to make it happen, but because Doof Crew enabling aside, Slit’s urging Coma to put himself out there aside, Coma never believed in his own ability to appeal to anyone directly, and that held him back for a long time.

  
  


   Only since Dag entered his life has Coma seemed to realise that his family haven’t just been kindly egging him on all this time because they have to and his band and the Doof Crew haven’t just been doing the same because they’ve had nothing better to do and were too terrified of Slit’s wrath to do otherwise. Only since Dag came along has Coma found the courage and the self-belief needed to get out there.

  
  


   She might look like you could knock her down with a feather, but the girl’s tough as nails and twice as sharp, and even though she sounds like a seventies horoscope reading sometimes it’s her faith in Coma and his abilities and his goodness that’s brought him out of his shell and her uncompromising attitude to doing what she thinks is right that’s helped put Coma in the spotlight and dared anyone who didn’t like it to come say it to her face.

  
  


   Not a lot of people, it turns out, have the balls to get in Dag’s face, not even if they’ve got a problem with Coma’s. Ace doesn’t quite understand why or under what circumstances Dag found his youngest boy or fell for him the way she clearly has, but it’s just as clear from a single look at them together that they make each other better and happier and that’s all Ace really needs to know. He doesn’t need to understand how it works to be happy for them or see that it does work, and to be fair, of all his kids, Coma’s the hardest to read, was always the quietest. Kind of funny considering he’s shaping up to get himself a really solid career in rock music, but then, he’s like his mother was. Multi-faceted.

  
  


   “Nothing’s decided, but Dag’s spoken to some people - organisers and venues - and she’s been on the message boards working out where we might go if it did happen, and I think… maybe, if it looks like it’d be worth doing and we can bring everyone?” Coma says finally with a sort of shrug, qualifying,

  
  


   “We’d want to bring the whole crew and do it properly. I don’t know. If it happens, we wouldn’t be gone that long. We’ll see.”

  
  


   That’s another thing, Ace thinks wryly as Slit and Nux congratulate Coma and he adds his own approving voice to the mix with a rumbling,

  
  


   “Whatever you decide, we’ll support you, and if we can help, you just let us know,” if Coma were to try and take on the work of organising a real tour even just of Oz, it’d be almost impossible for him to keep all the details and logistics straight. On that front, Dag is surprisingly practical and very good at things like wrangling venues and such into sensible and mutually-beneficial prices and so on. Coma’s just too  _ nice  _ to be effective at some of the things you have to do if you want to tour with a full band and crew and what-all, and the options available to him for planning are just a little too inefficient to be truly helpful.

  
  


   Dag’s a brawler, though, and she stands up for Coma because she truly believes in him. Ace doesn’t entirely understand her as a person - thinks maybe no one but Coma really does, which explains everything anyway - but thank Christ for Dag in every way all the same, Ace thinks as his youngest grins around at them and says a thank you for everything that he really doesn’t need to.

  
  


   Before Dag, Ace can’t remember the last time Coma grinned at anything or anyone.

  
  


   “Is Capable busier than usual? She hasn’t been around much,” Slit asks Nux, shifting the attention of the room from Coma effortlessly, the way he’s always done so easily whenever it’s been clear Coma needs a break, and Nux gladly takes over, always delighted at any opportunity to talk about Capable and how she makes the world go round.

  
  


   Ace was there for that one so he knows how it went, but he feels it was probably more straight-forward than Coma and Dag’s strange star-written connection, both because he’s taught his boys the value of being straight-forward when communicating with people and how by extension flirting is a crock and a form of dishonesty, and because Coma’s just more subtle and complex than Nux by nature and any attempt to teach Nux anything  _ but  _ being totally and utterly straight-forward about anything at all - especially his feelings - would have been a total waste of time.

  
  


   Still, Ace reckons the day Capable walked into the garage and into their lives was one of the happiest of not just Nux’ but Ace’s life. Definitely one of the happiest of Slit’s, judging by how often he brings up how bloody thrilled he is that Capable exists and she and Nux are in love and how excellently that works and how happy and rested Nux always looks these days and how much safer that is than Before and how Slit’s just so glad he doesn’t have to be worried for him all the time anymore, and Ace may be worried himself over Slit’s over-investment in his brothers’ happiness because he knows it stems from Slit’s unhealthy over-active fear of losing them and his unwillingness to address his own issues but God help him he’s just as relieved and delighted that Capable and Nux are together and he’s not about to try and take that away from Slit.

  
  


   It brings a smile to Ace’s lips still thinking of how the girly came in all worked up about having a minor prang with her mum’s truck and needing it fixed in a hurry - the only time Ace thinks he’s ever seen Capable less than collected - and asking so nicely if they could spare the time and promising to pay extra for the rush, no nonsense, all business, but no demanding either.

  
  


   Ace himself was in the back when she came in, and so he shouted for Nux to handle it, but he had a front row seat to Capable walking over to the car Nux was under and Ace’s frenetic, boisterous, over-eager middle child rolling out ready to make a new friend in both car and owner as always only to look up at her like he’d found a religion more compelling than the cult of V8 and exhaust fumes, and between Capable gushing thanks to them both and how if they really had the time that’d be just wonderful, Ace recalls chuckling to himself and thinking,  _ yes indeed, I remember gorgeous, strong-willed redheads and the effect they have. I’ll just edge on into the office and let them figure this out. _

  
  


   And they have done. So well that Ace sometimes has to squint at it to fully comprehend just how lucky he got in this calm, responsible, level-headed girly who somehow smooths out the edges that make Nux’ tendency to bounce off the walls so worrying and the bruises the world leaves on him so hard to handle and so hard for Nux to hide.

  
  


   Nux was never a subtle kid, and he’s never managed to be a quiet one either, so Ace ended up overhearing most of his first artless exchange with Capable on that fateful day in the garage, and what he learned there was that he’s succeeded as a parent in teaching Nux to be polite and respectful to others even when he’s busy shoving both boots in his mouth because Capable, as well as being a smart girl, clearly recognises quality when she sees it even if the package is a bit dusty and wide-eyed and directionless.

  
  


   As a parent, Ace couldn’t have hoped to do more for him in terms of preparing him for the world and people in it who might be worth keeping around, but to say he hadn’t been worried that Capable might prove less than her name suggested in terms of handling Nux would be a damn lie, and even now he’s sometimes amazed at just how well she does it, because to so many, Nux would be too much - too loud, too fast, too clingy, too tiring - but Capable takes it all in stride.

  
  


   Nux hasn’t gotten a speeding ticket in months.

  
  


   Ace has had a single conversation with Capable since she and Nux have become a couple  _ about  _ she and Nux and why that happened in the first place, since however obvious it was that Nux was smitten at first sight that’s never a guarantee anything’ll come the other way - on the occasion of their moving in together.

  
  


   Ace’d meant it to be just a basic briefing on the subject of Nux’ habit of forgetting his inhaler exists, where he’s left it, that he needs it, and to make sure it’s not empty when he does need it, but before he knew it Capable had made coffee, sat him down, and poured her heart out to him about how grateful she was to Ace that he’d raised such an honest, considerate, helpful boy and how thankful she was to have found him when she did at a point in her life where she was lonely and things were changing so fast she felt like she couldn’t keep up, because Nux is many things and overwhelming is certainly one of them by most standards, but he’s also desperately consistent and hopelessly guileless with it, and hearing Capable moon over how delighted she was to be starting a new chapter in her life with someone like him, someone she trusts and knows she can rely on completely to just be what she sees in him was nothing short of a revelation for Ace.

  
  


   As a parent, you try to prepare your kids for the knocks life is gonna give them. You want to believe they’re strong enough to weather the storm and you can only hope they meet good people once they fly the nest. Ace’s worry with Nux has always been that his ingrained desire to please everyone and his openness would make him an easy mark for anyone looking to take advantage and that his inability to slow down would eventually leave marks that can’t be fixed. In Capable, Nux has found someone who loves him for those exact qualities and is fiercely dedicated to protecting him when he doesn’t realise there’s a need and even more dedicated to protecting him when he’s actively seeking things he shouldn’t. Whether it’s her experience with sad energetic puppies from the animal shelter that gives her such a way with Nux, Ace can’t say, but whatever it is, he’s grateful for her ability to balance discipline with affection in a way that actually seems to help Nux find some balance.

  
  


   They’re solid together, and even if Ace will never stop worrying about his kids, he at least knows he doesn’t have to be afraid for Nux when Capable’s around. It’s all he could have hoped for.

  
  


   Slit’s glowing almost as much as Nux is, soaking in his brothers’ happiness, and it makes Ace sigh to see it, because while Slit’s eternal striving to protect Nux and Coma and his ultimate highest ambition to see them happy and successful in whatever they choose to pursue is a highly admirable trait and one Ace is always proud to see, it doesn’t change the fact that Slit, of the three, is the one who has always been the worst at finding a way to be and then letting himself be happy. Of his boys, Slit is the one who’s had the hardest time with himself, and Ace can’t help worrying that it’s getting worse.

  
  


   It’s why Nux and Coma are here, not just to visit and to support Slit, but to try and coax him back out into the world he’s once again all but barricaded himself against.

  
  


   It’s an old dance, this one, but Slit keeps inventing new steps and twisting around the main issue, which is what it’s always been; Slit’s alone because he doesn’t trust the world not to hurt him, and when it gets really bad, he makes sure to be alone so no one actually gets hurt.

  
  


   People used to get hurt, Ace recalls, biting back his grimace, but mostly, mostly the one who got it worst and always the one who ended up smarting whatever went down was his boy.

  
  


   Seeing his brothers helps, seeing them safe and happy, but only to a point - it’s no secret that Slit’s never been good at wanting anything for himself. What he’s always wanted, openly and fervently, is for Nux and Coma to be happy, and now that they are, part of Slit is just overjoyed and relieved, but another part is guilty, because Slit is still lonely and angry and unhappy, and the part of him that wants nothing for himself and doesn’t think he deserves to and thinks it should be enough that his brothers are doing well can’t reconcile with the part that knows there are things in Slit that can’t be fixed by seeing his brothers happy alone.

  
  


   Ace sees it. Strangers might not be able to read his son’s scarred and mangled face, but to Ace, it holds no secrets.

  
  


   Even if it did, Slit’s never been able to hold on to anything for long. It always comes out in the end, and this is an old, old pain. They’ve been over it so many times, but there are things Ace can’t do for his son, and one of them is to fix this hurt in him.

  
  


   “ _ All I ever really wanted is for them to be happy, _ ” Slit told his dad after Nux moved in with Capable, and Coma found Dag, near dead-drunk on the porch of this house, where he grew up, after Nux and Capable’s house-warming party, crying into Ace’s shoulder and no hope in hell of remembering any of it in the morning,

  
  


_ “Now  _ **_they_ ** _ are, and I'm not... I'm a terrible person. Them being happy should be enough, but it's not. I want...  _ **_things_ ** _ for myself but I don't know what... I don’t know what to do… I don’t know how to be happy for  _ **_me_ ** _...” _

  
  


   None of it was a secret then, and it still isn’t. It shines out of him just as brightly as the love for his brothers and the burning wish for them to be okay, but Slit won’t address it directly unless he’s too drunk to stand, and these days he’s more careful about letting Ace - or anyone - see him that way.

  
  


   Doesn’t mean Ace doesn’t see plenty though, or that Slit’s gotten any better with age at hiding some of the more obvious signs that he’s slipping backwards, so if Slit won’t face it, it falls to Ace to bring it up.

  
  


   He waits for a lull in conversation - talk has turned from Nux and Capable to Slit fielding questions from his brothers about his new classes - Ace is glad to hear Slit’s enjoying teaching Dag and Capable’s sister at least, but Slit’s not too keen on letting his brothers get much more out of him than that even though he does cop to their other sister having visited the class and been none too impressed by him, which Ace can see clearly bothers him even though Coma is quick to assure him that Dag’s said not to worry about it and Nux soothes him further that she hasn’t even visited Capable since Nux moved in because she’s having a rough time and doesn’t go out much, but Slit just shrugs and tries to change the subject, so Ace interrupts.

  
  


   “Nux, Coma, why don’t you two go make us a pot?” he suggests,

  
  


   “You got in so quick I didn’t think to put one on.”

  
  


   As expected, they’re happy enough to go and see to the coffee, and just as expected, Slit tenses up once he’s alone with Ace, because he knows that something’s coming.

  
  


   Ace picks his battle carefully. Something small. Something simple. Just want to get a foot in the door, is all, he reasons, something to make Slit think again about taking Coma up on his offer, even if it is just to take some time off from Ace and get in some Lizard R-And-R at the same time, Ace will take what he can get while Slit’s in as bad a way as this.

  
  


   “Now,” Ace says, leaning in over his knees and looking at Slit, who frowns,

  
  


   “About all these giant cardboard boxes that keep showing up on the doorstep.”

  
  


   “Yeah?” Slit replies, clearly uncomfortable, slouching,

  
  


   “‘s just art stuff.”

  
  


   “The art shop is in town,” Ace points out,

  
  


   “That's not far to go for a few palettes and brushes.”

  
  


   “Have you tried balancing a 220-by-190 canvas on a motorcycle?” Slit demands, immediately defensive but not sitting up straight, and Ace puts a little disappointment in his expression when he looks from Slit into the drive to the truck he clearly can borrow anytime he likes, and back. Slit just looks at him, stubbornly, blankly.

  
  


   The doorbell rings. Exactly as predicted and just why Ace chose this moment for this conversation. Nux immediately yells that he’ll get it - likely right into the postman’s face, judging by the timing of the sound of the door opening, poor Steve - and moments later he comes bustling back into the living room with a huge box in his arms, looking equal parts puzzled and excited.

  
  


   “‘s got Slit’s name on it,” he informs them, and Ace holds Slit’s gaze just long enough to see it turn guilty and flicker before turning to Nux and reaching for the box.

  
  


   “Let’s have it then, lad - go and help your brother, it’s a new machine,” he says calmly, and Nux hands over the box easily and then scampers off to supervise Coma’s coffee-making efforts afresh, although Ace knows it’s more likely that Coma’s keeping Nux from spilling or breaking anything in his enthusiasm.

  
  


   “That’s mine,” Slit pipes up from where he’s slumped into the sofa, but he makes no move to grab the box when Ace sets it onto the coffee table.

  
  


   “I know,” Ace replies, taking his knife out of his trousers and flicking it open, neatly slitting the tape keeping the box shut and then putting his knife away so he can flip open the wings of the box and peer inside.

  
  


   It contains an a5 sketchbook and two brushes. Neatly wrapped individually, but nowhere near large enough to warrant this amount of packaging.

  
  


   “Slit…” Ace sighs heavily as he takes the items out and puts them on the table, removing the box to a less in the way spot behind his own chair,

  
  


   “The boxes need to stop, lad. Now tell us the truth - did something bad happen at the art supply place? Is that why you've been avoiding going back?”

 

   Slit squirms not unlike a five-year old put on the spot and sinks into the sofa like a boneless lump of misery, mumbling,

  
  


   “Counter girl looked at me funny.”

  
  


   “How so funny?” Ace asks neutrally, watching his son try and shrug but fail because of the way he’s sunk into the crease of the sofa, and the frustration that chases unhappiness across his face comes through in his voice as well when he says,

  
  


   “'Like... I dunno,  _ funny _ ... She's been there all the times I've gone in the last month, I think maybe she thinks I'm a stalker or something...”

  
  


   “I am fairly sure she wouldn't think that,” Ace says as calmly and kindly as he can, and a hint of viciousness enters Slit’s tone when he snaps,

  
  


   “'Well then I guess it's just my face,” but he pointedly does not return Ace’s gaze.

  
  


   “Slit, we cannot have a repeat of the supermarket incident, this isn't the biggest city in the world, there's a limit to how many places we can buy the good coffee,” Ace lays out rationally, and Slit’s expression grows earnest as he starts,

  
  


   “I know, that's why I've been getting it delivered - ”

  
  


   “I see,” Ace interrupts gently, before making his tone a little firmer,

  
  


   “So this is exactly like the supermarket incident. In fact this  _ is _ the supermarket incident. Again. For the fifth time.”

  
  


   Slit averts his eyes and slumps so much he starts slipping off the sofa, muttering, 

  
  


   “I just don't like all the people staring at me and it's worse when I go really late, like they think I'm there to rob them or something... The internet doesn't judge me, it just sends me the stuff I ordered.”

  
  


   Ace rubs a hand over his face and sighs again - the internet has not made his attempts to help socialise Slit any easier.

  
  


   “Take Nux with you, then,” he suggests, and Slit immediately frowns and cries,

  
  


   “Nux dances in queues, Dad!”

  
  


   “So?” Ace demands with a hard stare, knowing that this is not judgment on Slit’s part for Nux’ slightly odd habit of dancing unconsciously to whatever music is in the background when he’s out and about, but something else giving rise to Slit’s bringing it up as a negative, and sure enough, his oldest boy rolls his eyes so hard it’s a marvel he doesn’t do himself an injury and states flatly,

  
  


   “If anyone laughs, I'll have to hit them.”

  
  


   “No,” Ace says patiently,

  
  


   “You'll  _ want _ to hit them, you don't  _ have _ to, that's a different thing, we covered this when you were ten, let's not go backwards.”

  
  


   Excuse not having worked, Slit instead lets his chin sink onto his chest and mumbles sullenly,

  
  


   “... but I don't want to.”

  
  


  “I understand that, but we all have to do things we don't want to do,” Ace tells him,

  
  


   “Take Nux shopping if you don't want to go on your own. Go with him and Capable if you have to. Or I can go with you. You can't avoid the world forever.”

  
  


   “But - ”

  
  


   “No more boxes, Slit,” Ace says sternly, and Slit pouts.

  
  


   “But overnight shipping doesn't cost extra - ”

  
  


   “ _ No _ more boxes. Think of the poor postman.”

  
  


   Slit lets himself go completely limp and effectively slides partly under the coffee table, muttering as he goes,

  
  


   “They're not even that heavy, Steve can just leave them in the driveway - ”

  
  


   Ace leans forward and sticks his head under the table pointedly to give him the Stern Fatherly Look he has spent years perfecting.

  
  


   “No more overnight shipping,” he decrees, and Slit groans and flops onto his front comically, pleading,

  
  


   “But - ”

  
  


   “Anything that gets delivered I am taking to work with me and holding hostage until you deal with this,” Ace warns him, and Slit frowns hard and yells,

  
  


   “You can't do that, I'm an adult, I have rights!”

  
  


   Ace will forever be thankful for Valkyrie and the others and what they’ve done for his boys in giving them such a firm grasp of morals and what is and is not acceptable, but occasionally he finds himself wishing that he and Gen had been just slightly more authoritative.

  
  


   “You are my boy, and it's my job to help you deal with things that hurt you,” he tells Slit with all the weight of that heavy responsibility behind it, and then asks him solemnly,

  
  


   “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you feel good about all this and how you're handling it?”

  
  


   He keeps his eyes on Slit for a long moment until finally Slit subsides and curls up on his side like a little lizard, just like when he was a child, and he sounds remarkably like he used to then when he replies,

  
  


   “No.”

  
  


   “Alright then. So no more overnight shipping,” Ace sums up, and Slit uncurls slightly to look at him imploringly and wheedle,

  
  


   “Not even - ”

  
  


   “Not even coffee. No more deliveries. Tomorrow we try for an actual trip to the shops. We'll make a day of it, whole family will go. I know Dag's running low on household glitter, she can go with you to the art supplies place, put that counter girly's mind at rest,” Ace decides, and Slit curls up again and whines,

  
  


   “But I don't  _ want  _ to…”

  
  


   “It'll be fun. Like when you were kids,” Ace says, resisting the urge to reach down and pull his son up into his lap the way he and Gen used to when he really was just a little lizard child and did this, and Slit makes a soft noise of dissent.

  
  


   “... will you push me in the trolley?” he asks finally, tipping his head at an angle to look up at Ace, who smiles down at him.

  
  


   “I swear on your mother's grave, if you can get in and out of the trolley under your own steam I will push you around the supermarket,” he vows, and Slit uncurls completely and then gets up so he can wrap himself around Ace on the armchair instead, mumbling,

  
  


   “I love you, Dad,” into Ace’s shoulder.

  
  


   “You're a good lad,” Ace promises him, holding him tightly for a long moment,

  
  


   “We’ll sort this out, don’t you worry none. It’ll all be right in the end.”

  
  


   Slit’s muffled sound of agreement sounds suspiciously like a sob, so Ace doesn’t comment, but he can see Nux and Coma hovering in the doorway, and waves them in, smiling to himself at the way Nux tiptoes into the room with a lock of Coma’s hair in his hand to guide him, and Coma carries the tray of coffees and manages to set it down on the table without issue, Nux sweeping the art supplies to one side before they both pile onto their brother from either side, the armchair, solid as it is, making a creaking sound as the tangle of long limbs just about manages to remain upright, anchored either side by Nux and Coma’s legs.

  
  


Into the muddle of hair and faces and limbs, Slit mumbles that he would quite like to go home with Coma after coffee, and maybe talk to Dag about her sister.

  
  


   “Dag’ll be so happy to see you,” Coma beams,

  
  


   “Let’s have coffee then.”

  
  


   It’s easier on Ace’s old bones than his heart when Nux and Coma peel Slit away easily and back over to pile onto the sofa and dispense the coffee, starting a new discussion about whether Nux should re-do the paintwork on his racer, and later on when they all pile into Nux’ car and peel out of the drive, all he can think is,  _ we’re doing the best we can. _

  
  


   -

  
  


   They wave goodbyes as Nux drives away, just a tiny bit faster than is wise, which speaks volumes about how far he's come. Slit grabs hold of Coma's hand as they walk up to his and Dag's house, not because Coma doesn't know that path like the back of said hand, but because it's what Slit always used to do when they were young and all places were unfamiliar terrain, and having been back in their childhood home with both his brothers makes it seem like the natural thing to do.

  
  


   Dag opens the door as Slit reaches for the handle, and apparently she's been thoroughly briefed on what the purpose of Coma's visit was, because she greets them by pulling the brothers into a tight hug and planting a kiss on Coma's cheek. She and Coma murmur-whisper into each others’ hair for a moment, which Slit assumes means she's getting a run-down on how it went, and he slips past them into the house. He may have been very kindly press-ganged into leaving the house and he may have stuff to say here but he’s going to get his lizard fix first.

  
  


   An hour or so later, perfect lizard child found and brought into the living room to be properly adored, Slit feels a little more talkative.

  
  


   “Thought you were here for advice, mate,” Dag remarks, obviously Coma’s told her what she needs to know, but Slit doesn't let it bother him.

  
  


   The large monitor has settled on his lap, and this is a blessing and he refuses not to pay attention to his favourite scaly little niece while she's gracing him with her presence.

  
  


   “I am,” he says, 

  
  


   “Liz is advising.”

  
  


   “Schhrrcheee,” Liz supplies.

  
  


   And Dag can't argue with that, he knows she can't, because she keeps bringing up Liz's opinions when they discuss merch options for Coma. Elizabeth L. Jobassa-Jones' opinions are highly valued in this house. Granted her only suggestion for what Slit can do to convince Toast that his intentions are mostly honourable is lightly biting his fingers, and he's not entirely sure that will help, but he's not going to tell this magnificent lizard that she's wrong.

  
  


   “But,” he admits, scratching warm scales, 

  
  


   “She probably doesn't know her aunt as well as you do.”

  
  


   “Might not be a bad idea to consult Dag too,” Coma agrees as he settles down on the sofa next to her, fingers brushing her arm, making sure she’s there although she always is.

  
  


   Liz, picking up on the fact that her daddy's lap is now available, abandons Slit, who feels that probably this is some kind of metaphor for how well his life is going, but that's a bad thought, not helpful, and he moves to a soft worn chair, which proves an acceptable substitute for the floor despite its tragic lack of cool lizard relatives. Dag laughs at his pouting face, and scratches elaborately painted nails over Lizzy's scales, her fingers brushing Coma's where they rest. 

  
  


   “So? What do ya want to know?” she asks, interrupting his - admittedly sappy, even for his artist’s soul - thoughts.

  
  


   Slit looks down at his hands, picks at a fleck of dried paint on the back of his left and frowns.

  
  


   “The sense I'm getting,” he begins, not looking up, because he doesn't think he can meet their eyes or lack thereof and still continue,

  
  


   “Is that Toast is not doing too good. And that she's maybe not doing too good in the way I was a couple years back.”

  
  


   He pauses, glances cautiously up. Dag is looking at him, a small encouraging smile. Coma's face is turned towards the monitor lizard in his lap, and Slit can't really fault him for that.

  
  


   “And, you know, I… I've maybe been doing less than amazingly lately, not gonna deny that. And I think maybe I want to try to help her get better. And I think that might make me better too. But I… I'm not entirely sure what's going on with her, y'know? She comes into my classroom glaring and, well, not shouting, not at first, and, I mean, I know I look… Whatever, I know I'm not the most  _ approachable  _ looking person, but - ”

  
  


   “Yes?”

  
  


   “I know what it's like, being like that. Not fun. So.”

  
  


   He looks up at Dag in a way he hopes doesn’t seem pleading.

  
  


   “Help me help her?”

  
  


   “We will,” Dag assures him, with a sideways look at an unaware Coma which seems to hint at something, but Slit can’t tell what.

  
  


   “Toast is sweet and lovely down deep,” Dag says, 

  
  


   “But she isn’t doing great, you’re right about that. And the thing with Cheedo? Same thing as you and Coma.”

  
  


   Slit narrows his eyes at her, and while Coma does not in any way squirm uncomfortably, it looks as if he, were he someone else, might feel inclined to do so in this situation. 

  
  


   “She’s focusing on her, pouring all her righteous resentment of the world, all her energy into making sure Cheedo’s safe. Bit like you two.”

  
  


   She punctuates her statement by putting a hand on Coma’s arm, who angles his face in roughly Slit’s direction. Liz hisses softly, sensing slightly less attention is being paid to her. 

 

   Slit wants to argue with Dag, but he can’t, really. And anyway, Toast probably feels as justified in what she does as he always has. Because although he’s gotten better at letting go, at trusting Coma and now Dag to make sure he’s alright, Slit’s instinct remains. Hence his perhaps excessive amount of visits. And frequent texts. And occasional Skype sessions. It’s important to keep family safe.

  
  


   “But it’s doing some good,” Dag says, to raised eyebrows and confused hissing noises.

  
  


   “She’s left the house,” she explains,

  
  


   “Talked to new people. Willingly gone outside without noise-cancelling headphones and shades. She’s taken a new interest in life and some of what’s going on, and she’s not done it in a good way, but it’s still the right direction. Or at least  _ a _ direction. She’s come out of hiding, but she’s come bearing swords.”

  
  


   Coma’s gotten distracted by some thought or moment of inspiration, and is tapping soft unheard rhythms on Lizzy’s back, which the lizard interprets as petting. Slit nods. He knows.

  
  


   “She’s so scared of life and being a part of it that the best she feels she can do is to be angry and alone, keep herself apart. We haven’t spoken face to face for ages, just texted. She hasn’t even met Coma. Or Nux.”

  
  


   This last is followed by a reproachful look in what Slit imagines to be the direction of Toast’s place. He quietly agrees.

  
  


   “It’s not important,” Coma says softly, and both Dag and Slit turn to glare at him in a way meant to communicate how wrong he is.

  
  


   Coma, being Coma, doesn’t notice. 

  
  


   “It is,” Dag tells him, but quiet and with gravity, like they’ve talked about it before.

  
  


   Dag looks meaningfully at Coma, and their fingers interlock over Lizzy’s scales in some sort of silent communication that looks as if it’s not meant for Slit’s eyes. He looks instead at the many lizard toys strewn all over the floor, and debates silently whether he could possibly be a good reptile parent. But as usual he comes to the conclusion that it would be too much work with a monitor, and he knows what it’s like growing up without a mum and he wouldn’t wish that on the most vicious of komodo dragons. He used to want a komodo dragon when he was little, that could, possibly, theoretically, be ridden into battle, but has in his old age resigned himself to only experiencing that on the paper on what might be slightly too many sketchbook pages. In the drawings he’s in full armour, visor down, holding a lance. Sometimes the lance is on fire.

  
  


   “What I’m saying is that she’s spent the last year isolating herself. Especially after she finished uni. Didn’t get a job, just holed up in her room with her computer...” Dag sighs, and Slit can see how Dag who loves freedom and the outdoors and wide open space would find this sad, and twice as sad because this is her sister whom she wants to be happy.

  
  


   “I think,” Dag adds, frowning,

  
  


   “That she took it as a bit of a betrayal when Capable and I moved out. Felt a bit abandoned. So she’s latched on to Cheedo extra hard, finding it that much more difficult to let go and let her be.”

  
  


   And Slit looks away again at that. It feels a little too familiar. He wonders briefly if he might have too much in common with Toast. But no, no, that’s the point. That’s why he’s here, that’s why -

  
  


   “Finding some imaginary big scary bully - no offense mate - to protect Cheedo from, is the most initiative she’s taken in ages. Shame it’s got her yelling at ya over nothing, but… See, the thing she’s most scared of, now that she’s imagined she’s all but lost Capable and I to the big bad world and all the big bad boys in it, is losing Cheedo too, right? So even though Cheedo’s right there, safe and sound and doing beautiful art - ”

  
  


   Slit nods at that, just to make sure, and Dag winks at him and carries on,

  
  


   “ - Toast’s so scared something will happen the second Cheedo’s out of sight that Toast can’t control, that it’s making the paranoia worse, and making sure Cheedo’s alright for  _ Toast’s  _ given values of ‘alright’ is the only thing that seems like it’s got any meaning, any point to it. The only thing that soothes those fears. Even if it can’t actually be done. And you’re her first, best, most credible candidate for a villain to fight and focus on - you’re so Toast-textbook you’re practically a caricature!”

  
  


   Coma looks uncomfortable at that, but Slit mutters that’s it’s fine, it’s whatever. He knows Dag isn’t being mean about it; she wouldn’t. She’s just stating a fact.

  
  


   If there’s one thing he’s used to, it’s being viewed with hostility and suspicion - especially by women - simply for his size and scars. It’s not like he can hide them, so he’s never really bothered to try, and he’s never felt comfortable dressing to downplay himself, always felt it probably makes him look even more suspicious, so there’s no help for that, either.

  
  


   He knows what he looks like and he knows that it’ll always leave a bad first impression on people. It’s been doing that from the start. He might have gotten a little leeway on it when he was still very much a child to look at, clearly too young to have been actively involved in the gruesome injuries inflicted on him, but the minute he hit his growth spurt and fleshed out a little he’s been having to get used to people treating him like he’s probably some kind of thug or hoodlum, because people just can’t imagine how else the scars would have come about. It doesn’t help that because the scarring is so bad most people have trouble correctly reading his facial expressions, so even his most polite smile often comes across as sneering.

  
  


   At this stage, he just lives with it, is aware enough of it not to be actively offended when women hold their bags more tightly when they realise he’s behind them in a queue, or pull their kids to the other side of the street when he comes walking down the same way as them. Women have every right to be cautious. They don’t know what happened to him. His scars look every bit as intentional as they were. There’s no way Slit’s face at first glance to most people says ‘this was done to me, and I did not deserve it’. He gets that.

  
  


   Still hurts though, and worse, he knows it hurts Coma. His sweet little brother who of all people knows what it’s like to be unfairly judged by others for what his face happens to look like even though it’s entirely beyond his control.

  
  


   Slit knows that Dag knows that too, that this is a sore subject for both of them, and he’s grateful to see how she clasps Coma’s hand supportively, pleased to see the discomfort on Coma’s face dissipate.

  
  


   “Toast’s always been particularly wary of men - especially frightened of anyone who looks like she couldn’t beat them even in an unfair fight, and you… you fit the profile. You look the part of the boogeyman she’s built up in her head, even if it is ridiculous, and that’s clouding her judgment even further,” Dag explains, not ungently,

  
  


   “Her fears aren’t unfounded, they’re based in bad experiences, but they  _ have  _ grown to the point now where they’re irrational, where they’re hindering her. It hasn’t helped that she spends so much time online, reading things and talking to people that reinforce this overly generalised idea that the world is inherently evil and people can’t be trusted - ”

  
  


   “Well, she’s not all wrong,” Slit points out, and Dag grins.

  
  


   “No, not entirely, but she  _ is  _ taking it too far. It’s hurting her. She shouldn’t be so sure that everyone is just looking for a chance to hurt her badly that she can’t muster the courage to leave the house unless she takes it into her head first that if she doesn’t, something bad might happen to Cheedo. You see?” Dag lays out, and Slit nods slowly.

  
  


   “I’m an easy target,” he agrees, and Dag’s eyes sharpen like she’s not happy about it.

  
  


   “You are, but it’s not your fault, and once she finally figures that out, she’ll feel badly for assuming, but first she needs to get past the hurdle of  _ wanting  _ to believe it’s true. At the moment all this hostility is giving her some much-needed get up and go get ‘em, but that won’t last, and it shouldn’t. You can’t just be her emotional punching bag while she figures out where her head’s at, that’s not fair to you,” Dag says honestly, and Slit can see the subtle way Coma’s mouth twitches, and knows it’s because Coma’s not used to people sticking up for his brothers, that it makes him happy that Dag’s accepted Slit as one of the people in whose corner she’s willing to fight when needed.

  
  


   Honestly, it makes Slit happy too, and even more so because it so obviously means so much to Coma.

  
  


   “No, I know,” Slit agrees,

  
  


   “But I know it might take a while. For her to be ready, I mean, to realise. And I’m not helpless, Dag, I can handle it. I remember what it’s like, needing something to rage at - once she burns out or realises I’m not the real target, things will get better, and I just… Think she deserves that. No one should be scared all the time.”

  
  


   He doesn’t say that he’s still scared a lot of the time. They all know that. Hell it’s why he’s basically moved back home, because on some level he’s not sure he really knows how to be alone, or trusts himself to be. He definitely doesn’t  _ want  _ to be alone.

  
  


   “I just want to know,” he adds, 

  
  


   “Whether you think there’s anything I can do that will actually help?”

  
  


   He doesn’t really let them provide any suggestions though because he’s not really done even though the next admission is unpleasant and has to be heaved up from the depths of him, but he does it, in case it’ll help.

  
  


   “I know letting Coma and Nux and Dad help me, be there for me, that’s how I got through that, or am getting through that. And that’s what she doesn’t, yeah? And maybe that’s the biggest thing, which I obviously can’t help with, not much.”

  
  


   Dag smiles a gentle smile of approval at that, which makes it worth the effort, and Coma gives a sort of shrug-nod.

  
  


   “I feel like if I could talk to her properly, if she listened to me without filtering it through anger, then that... Then she’d get it. Get that I know what that’s like, that it can get better but…”

  
  


   “But it’s the listening that’s the problem?” Coma suggests gently.

  
  


   “...Yeah,” Slit agrees, looking away.

  
  


   Because although he did let his family help, mostly, generally, it wasn’t always easy. And it’s entirely possible Slit didn’t always make the best of choices. But it’s long gone, it’s all forgiven and Coma’s got a little supportive smile and Slit manages not to dwell.

  
  


   “I don’t know how I’d actually convince her to hear me out, you know? To let down her guard long enough.”

  
  


   “She might not feel that your situations are the same,” Dag begins, frowning.

  
  


   Slit shrugs.

  
  


   “They’re not, that’s fine. It’s just the same way of reacting to stuff.”

  
  


   “Thing is, I can’t make her listen. Wouldn’t want to. And I’m not sure you could either. But Cheedo might be able to…”

  
  


   “Yeah?” he asks, and the others crack small smiles at how eager he sounds.

  
  


   And it makes sense to him, it does, because how many times hasn’t he gotten his shit together because Coma or Nux looked at him with just a hint of disappointment? Younger sibling guilt is a powerful motivator, he can appreciate that, so when Dag nods he feels a glimmer of hope.

  
  


   “I think at this point she may be the only one who can get through to Toast,” she adds,

  
  


   “And I’m certain she’ll want to help. She’s quite keen to impress you, you know.”

  
  


   Dag grins, clearly amused.

  
  


   “She has,” he promises,

  
  


   “Doing real well. Hope she knows that. Maybe I’ll have to buy gold star stickers, although, prefer not to,  _ Morsov _ uses those.”

  
  


   He winces at the thought of that bastard, but he’s got more important problems.

  
  


   “It’d be great if Cheedo wants to help, but for Toast’s sake, yeah? I get that it’s not always fun being the target of that sort of protectiveness.”

  
  


   Coma gives him a sad little smile, and tells him it’s fine, but Slit’s guts twist with guilt, because he knows it’s been far from fine, that he’s stepped over lines, and even if it’s out of love, that’s still not okay. 

  
  


   “But the point is, it can get better. I have. Or I hope so, anyway. I’m not as bad as I used to be, it’s doable, getting better… Just want her to know that.”

  
  


   When Slit leaves the Jobassa-Jones househould, with unsolicited promises to call and visit again soon, and lots of pats for Lizzy, because she has been a good listener, and she deserves all the pats and headscritches in the known world, she is a Good Lizard, he feels lighter. Like he can maybe do this thing, maybe actually help Toast. And yes, he admits to himself, it’s a bit selfish, what he’s doing. He hopes that maybe if he can help her then he’ll get better too, but without having to make the decision that he himself is a person who both needs and deserves help. Because historically he has been not great at that.

  
  


   He drives into the city, heading home to his own place, because he feels he has to, it feels like an important step, like deciding to get better. It’ll be dusty and too hot, but that’s right too, somehow. He feels like he can deal with that today. He feels hopeful for the first time in ages.

  
  


   -

 

 

 


End file.
